


And All the Sinners, Saints

by angelsdemonsducks



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crowley (Good Omens) is Crowley (Supernatural), Dubious Morality, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Identity Issues, M/M, Resurrection, Reunions, Slow Burn, Temporary Character Death, crowley's morals are not your morals, everyone's got issues, in regards to the destiel at least, no one is straight, pre-Sabriel - Freeform, season six au, there is an explanation for this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-03
Updated: 2019-04-01
Packaged: 2019-05-17 19:32:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 61,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14837837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelsdemonsducks/pseuds/angelsdemonsducks
Summary: Dean leaves Lisa on a Thursday.The worst thing about it is that she doesn't even look surprised.Miserable where he is, Dean makes the decision to abandon his 'apple pie life' and return to what he's always known, hoping that he'll be able to heal from Sam's death. Cas, on the other hand, is fighting and losing his war in Heaven, and while he needs help desperately, he is reluctant to drag Dean into his mess.Meanwhile, a long-dead, newly resurrected angel is placed in Sam's path. An archangel tries and fails to act like everything is fine. And a demon sits on a bloody throne, dissatisfied.A single choice can change everything, for everyone. For Dean, his actions will have consequences far beyond what anybody could anticipate.





	1. In Which Dean Makes a Decision

**Author's Note:**

> Title from 'Sympathy for the Devil' by The Rolling Stones.

Dean leaves Lisa on a Thursday.

The worst thing about it is that she doesn’t even look surprised. She lets him stammer and stumble his way through an explanation of why exactly he can’t stay here anymore, and when he finally falls into uneasy silence, she just crosses her arms. The look on her face is something a little sad and something a little pitying, but there is no dawning look of realization, nothing to suggest she didn’t see this coming.

“I’m only surprised you stayed as long as you did,” she tells him, and her voice is resigned. Maybe a little disappointed. It makes his throat clench up like a vice.

“Really?” is all he can manage.

She sighs. “I know you, Dean, and that means I can tell when you’re miserable. You’re trying here, you really are, but this isn’t where you want to be.”

He doesn’t have a good response to that, because that’s basically all of his problems in a nutshell. He loves Lisa, and he loves Ben, and he likes the job he managed to snag at the local mechanic’s well enough. But it’s been almost two months since he got here, and he’s not really any more settled than he was at the start. He’s figured out how not to wake Lisa with his nightmares, but that’s just about it. He likes it here, likes the apple pie life, but he can’t shake off the feeling that it’s not where he’s meant to be, that it’s not home.

The thing is, home has always been his brother, and his brother is gone.

“Hey,” Lisa says, putting a hand on his arm. He startles. “Just… say bye to Ben before you go, alright? He’s not going to get it.”

He swallows hard and manages a nod.

She’s right. Ben doesn’t get it, not really. But then, he’s glad he doesn’t. That just means that he’s still innocent, that he hasn’t ever had to deal with something like this. Hopefully, a stable home life will mean that he never will.

Once he understands that Dean’s being serious about this, Ben tries to get him to take him with him. “I could help you fight the monsters,” he suggests, and wow, no. If he has his way, nothing supernatural will get anywhere near Ben ever again.

“I’m sorry buddy,” he says. “That’s not happening. But hey--” He softens his voice, crouches down to be on eye level-- “someone’s got to stay here and look after your mom, right? If you’re off fighting monsters, there won’t be anyone left here for her.”

Ben looks disgruntled, but more accepting than he did a moment previous. “I guess,” he says, and then launches himself forward, wrapping his arms tightly around him. “I’m gonna miss you,” he says, voice muffled by Dean’s shirt.

He blinks, and in that moment, he hates himself for putting them through this. If this was what was going to happen, it would have been better for him to never come back at all. “Yeah,” he says, his voice hoarse, “you too, Ben.”

He meets Lisa’s eyes over the kid’s shoulder. She gives him a nod.

He doesn’t cry. He admits, he wants to, a little. But as much as that’s true, this is the right thing to do. It’s not fair to them to stay here if his heart’s not in it. If he can’t give them what they deserve.

He doesn’t stay for dinner. He’s afraid he would change his mind if he did. Both Lisa and Ben extract promises from him to call every now and then, to let them know he’s still alive, but he can tell from the look in Lisa’s eyes that she thinks he won’t. He hates himself for it, but she’s probably right. If he’s going to make a break, it had better be a clean break.

He should have known from the start, he thinks, that this wasn’t going to work out. But it was what Sam wanted, so he gave it a try. For his brother, and isn’t that just the story of his life? Sam is trapped in Hell, but he’s a persistent ghost regardless.

He hits the road at a quarter to six. There’s no way he’s going to get to Bobby’s at a reasonable time. He’ll probably stop somewhere. But for now, the hum of the Impala’s engine sends a comforting shiver down his back, and she runs as smoothly as she always has. The passenger seat is achingly empty, but he tries to ignore that as he coasts down the highway. Miles ahead of him and miles behind, the black asphalt gives way under the Impala’s tires, and for the first time in months, he feels just a little bit at peace.

 

* * *

 

 

He pulls into a motel at around one in the morning. It’s a ragged place, obviously only a few dollars away from closing, and the manager gives him a suspicious look as he hands him his room key. But it’s a roof over his head, and a bed-- albeit a questionable one-- to sleep in, and that’s all he needs. Judging by the temperature of the room, the heater’s broken, but that’s alright. He’s slept in far worse places.

He’s also slept in far better. Not for the first time, he wonders if he did the right thing, leaving them.

Well, he can’t go back now. That wouldn’t be fair to anyone. He’s made his decision, and he needs to stick to it, for everyone’s sakes.

He calls Bobby as soon as he’s inside his room, the bed creaking ominously as he sits on it. It takes five rings for him to answer, and Dean realizes guiltily that he’s probably asleep. But he picks up before he can stop the call.

“‘lo?” Bobby’s voice is thick with sleep, but a wave of relief washes over him regardless. He hadn’t anticipated how good it would feel to hear his voice again.

“Hey, Bobby,” he replies. “It’s me.”

A beat. “Dean?” Bobby asks. He sounds much more alert now.

“Yeah,” he says. “Sorry for calling so late. I just wanted to let you know that I’m headed your way.”

A beat. “That so?” Bobby says. “What happened?”

He sighs. He should have known Bobby would realize something was up. “Nothing happened,” he says. “Everything’s fine, it’s just… not working out. I tried, but I can’t stay there anymore.”

There is a pause, and Dean knows that Bobby is interpreting that, reading between the lines to all the things he didn’t say. “Well, you know my door’s always open for you,” Bobby says at length. “I’ll have to make sure I’ve got a room ready, since I wasn’t expecting to hear from you.”

Which is not entirely true. Bobby always has a room ready for him and Sam. But that’s not the point he was getting at. Dean feels another flash of guilt. He should have kept in contact. Bobby was mourning too, but he didn’t stop to consider that before practically vanishing. Not that Bobby didn’t know where to find him, but still.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I’m sorry.” He’s not talking about the room, and Bobby knows it too.

“Just get here in one piece if you’re comin’, alright?” Bobby says, his voice softening ever so slightly.

He feels his lips curl into a smile. “I will. Thanks, Bobby.” He hangs up, and suddenly, the room is far too quiet. Crickets chirp outside, perfectly audible through the thin walls. He sets the phone down and leans back on the bed, his eyes tracing the patterns on the dubiously stained ceiling. He’s tired, but his mind is screaming at him to get up and keep going. To keep moving. It seems that being on the road again after so long has made him restless. Sleeping’s going to be an issue tonight.

Then, the temperature drops by another ten degrees, and he realizes that it wasn’t just the road. He should have picked up on it the moment he stepped foot in the room. Broken heater or not, it’s the middle of summer. The room shouldn’t be this cold.

He’s gotten rusty.

He sits bolt upright, scanning the room, reaching for his gun. He’s drawn the usual sigils, and the salt lines are intact. If there’s something in here, then it was here before him.

Just his luck to pick the haunted motel.

Despite the closed window, an icy breeze gusts through the room, and the ghost appears in the corner, watching him. It’s a little girl, wearing blue denim overalls and clutching a stuffed bunny with both hands. Her hair is in two ponytails, and her eyes are large and brown and sad. She can’t be more than seven or eight years old.

They stare at each other for a moment. Dean points his gun, but he doesn’t fire.

Just his fucking luck.

“Who are you?” the girl asks. Her voice is hollow, and it reverberates slightly, but she doesn’t sound hostile. A little sad, if anything, a little confused.

But Dean knows better than anyone how quickly that can change. He can’t let down his guard. He doesn’t lower the gun. “Who are you?” he replies, though he can’t help but temper his voice, just a little bit. Jesus, this kid is young.

The girl regards him. “I’m Mary,” she says. Dean feels a pang. “Are you here to take me away?” Her hands clutch her stuffed bunny even tighter, and Dean frowns.

“I don’t know,” he says. “Do you want to leave?”

She shakes her head. “I want my daddy.”

Shit.

Dean slides off the bed slowly, keeping both hands where the girl can see them. He doesn’t take his finger off the trigger, but he stops pointing the gun at her chest. He approaches, and stops a few feet away from her, keeping his posture open, non-threatening. “Do you know where your daddy is?” he asks.

She shakes her head again. “Daddy said we had to come here so we did and then he hurt me and he left and I don’t know where he is. Will you take me to him?” As Dean watches, blood drips down her face in a steady stream, dark, angry red in contrast to the stark white color of her skin. The lights begin to flicker.

Double shit. His finger twitches, and his grip on the gun tightens.

“I don’t know if I can do that,” he says, and then pauses. What else can he say? How can he explain to this kid that she’s dead? He wishes Sam were here. He may be good with kids, but Sam was always better with victims, better at soothing their fears and coaxing them to open up. He always knew just what to say.

But Sam is as dead as this girl is, and his spirit hasn’t lingered.

Her face darkens. “That’s what the lady said too. You’re both awful.”

Lady?

“What lady?” he echoes the thought.

She points at the empty space over his shoulder. “The  _ lady _ ,” she insists. “She wants to take me away too.”

Dean feels a shiver run down his spine, a shiver that has nothing to do with the cold. He knows that if he looks over his shoulder, he won’t see anyone there, just as he knows that there is almost certainly a reaper standing behind him.

He’s eaten pizza with Death. Reapers don’t scare him.

But at the same time, reapers don’t tend to like him all that much, and it’s never a good idea to cross one.

“Why don’t you want to go with the lady?” he asks.

The girl blinks. The lights stop flickering, and for a moment, she looks like exactly what she is: a scared little girl. “If I leave, Daddy won’t be able to find me. And there’s fighting where she wants to take me,” she whispers. “I can hear it.”

Dean’s heart stops. 

_ What. _

“What do you mean,” he says, “there’s fighting?”

“Fighting,” the girl repeats, scowling. “Like Mommy and Daddy used to. Only, with more people and more screaming. I think people are getting hurt. So I don’t want to go there.”

Fighting. In Heaven.

_ Cas _ .

But how would a ghost know anything about what’s happening in Heaven? Unless she’s psychic, but what are the odds of that?

Isn’t the Apocalypse over?

“Alright, well, I’ll tell you what,” he says, his pulse going a million miles a minute. “You go with the lady now, and she’ll keep you far, far away from the fighting. She’ll take you to a very nice place, and I bet your daddy’ll be there too, okay?” Or a memory of him, at least. If Dean’s hunch is correct, the man himself won’t be getting anywhere near the good place.

The girl squints at him. “Do you promise?” she asks.

He manages a smile, and thin though it is, she seems to buy it. “I promise,” he says.

“Okay,” the girl says. “Okay.” And she stares behind him again. “I’m ready then.”

A moment passes, and then the girl begins to glow with golden light. Dean thinks he can see the reaper, a tall black woman, standing just behind her, a gentle hand resting on one shoulder. Then, they are both gone, and the motel room is once again still and dark. He sits on the edge of the bed, breathing heavily.

She’ll be at peace now. He knows that. And at least he didn’t have to try and track down her body to burn it. But that still doesn’t make it any easier.

And… fighting. In Heaven. What does that even mean? Why would there still be fighting?

Maybe she was imagining things. She was just a kid after all, dead and scared out of her mind, wanting her parents. Maybe it was nothing more than that.

But she seemed so  _ sure _ .

He raises his eyes toward the moldy, water-stained ceiling, as if it will hold any answers. He hasn’t done this in a while, not since those first few desperate days, the endless hours he spent in a grieving, drunken stupor, when he would have done anything at all to make thing better again. But Cas didn’t answer then, and he probably won’t answer now, and damn it, Dean’s still angry about the way he left, with a really shitty goodbye and not so much as a backwards glance.

“Hey, Cas,” he says, and hates himself a little even as he does. “Uh, haven’t talked to you in a while. I…” This was a bad idea. “Look, I’ve been hearing some stuff down here, so if there’s something going on, let me know, alright?”  _ Let me know you’re alright. _

A moment passes. Then another. The room remains silent.

He wasn’t expecting anything different, but disappointment still floods through him. Either Cas is in trouble, or he’s ignoring him, and he doesn’t know which is worse. The first one, objectively, of course, but the thought that Cas has completely abandoned him makes his chest hurt in a way he is not going to examine right now, or ever, thank you very much.

He lies back down on the bed, his head a swirling mess. If there’s a problem, there’s not anything he can do about it right now, but he hates that, hates the helplessness, the impotency. All he can do is hope that Cas has the sense to ask for support if he needs it. Hope that he knows he can.

When sleep comes to him, his dreams are uneasy and full of whispering voices, but he doesn’t remember any of them when he wakes.

Probably for the better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Several things:
> 
> 1\. Thanks for reading!!! The first eight chapters are done, though not edited, but the fic overall is probably going to end up somewhere around 20 to 25 chapters or so, so we're here for the long haul. Updates will be weekly, as regular as I can make them.
> 
> 2\. This is a season six AU. ...Ngl, I haven't been watching the show since early season 11. I have a general idea of what's been going on from spoilers and whatnot, but for the purposes of this fic, I'm cherrypicking what canon I want to use and ignoring the rest.
> 
> 3\. This is a crossover with Good Omens. If you haven't read Good Omens (by Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett), I highly recommend it, but you don't have to have read it for the purposes of this fic; I'm explaining things as I go.
> 
> 4\. This fic is also a rewrite of a very old fic of mine, which you can find completed [here.](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/10857365/1/Ineffability-And-How-To-Avoid-It) Fair warning, I wrote most of it at 13/14 and that shows, and a lot of things about the plot are pretty different anyway, but... I guess you could read it if you wanted to? Idk.
> 
> ...Long author's note is long. Sorry.
> 
> Next Chapter: Sam meets an angel. It's hard to tell who is more alarmed by this.


	2. In Which There is a Fateful Meeting

The man appears in the middle of a deserted backroad in northern California. The trees surrounding him rustle despite the sudden lack of wind, and for a moment, the birds stop singing. The pale, grey predawn light seems to illuminate him, and for a stretch of time that lasts almost forever, the world appears to be at peace.

Then, the illusion breaks. A cloud covers the sun, and the birds resume their chirping. The man blinks and staggers, one hand coming up to press at his chest, as if probing for a wound. When he finds none, he brings that hand up in front of his face. Flexes his fingers. Blinks again and adjusts his spectacles. He does not recognize these woods.

“Oh dear,” he murmurs, and flinches, as if the sound of his own voice is unexpected to him. The sound dies out quickly, suppressed by the forest; there is nothing around for miles and miles except the birds and the trees. He is alone, and the feeling is unsettling. He has no idea what he’s doing here, that much is clear by the utter bewilderment on his face.

“Oh dear,” he says again, very eloquently. A lump is forming in his throat. “Oh, dear.”

An understatement.

 

* * *

 

 

Sam coasts down the winding roads of northern California at a gentle sixty-seven miles per hour. The trees blur past his windows, there and gone again in an instant. His is the only car on the road and has been for hours, and the sun hangs low in the sky, early morning slowly giving away to pre-noon. The time when driving through the night would have left him exhausted is nothing more than a distant memory.

His phone rings. He ignores it. His tires eat the asphalt and spit it out the other end, the world flashes by too quickly to absorb, and there is a vampire nest north of LA that needs taking care of. And that is that, everything that he needs to consider wrapped up in a single sentence.

Briefly, he glances at the empty passenger seat, and his thoughts turn to Dean. But only for a second or two, because Dean is safe with Lisa, living the apple pie life that Sam used to want so badly, and Sam made the choice to leave him behind what seems like a lifetime ago. He is a better hunter now than he ever has been and he doesn’t quite know why, but whatever the reason, his head is clear for what feels like the first time, and he doesn’t need Dean. Not anymore. And it’s better that way.

So. The trees blur past his windows, there and gone again in an instant. And the passenger seat remains empty.

Then, he sees the man sitting by the side of the road.

His first instinct is to speed past without a backwards glance. He has no time for hitchhikers, not to mention the inherent risk of picking up strangers on the road. But as he approaches, he sees that the man is dressed in a way that he can only describe as ‘outdated English professor’, which is what first sets his alarm bells ringing. There is no town within several miles of here, nor, he believes, any hiking trails. There is no reason for this man, English teacher or not, to be sitting here, and certainly not dressed like that. No normal reasons, anyway, and that more than anything else is what has him pulling over to the side of the road. If this man is something other than human, it’s his job to kill him.

He approaches carefully, one hand hovering where he can easily snatch the gun from where it’s tucked in the waistband of his pants. The man does not seem to notice his arrival, staring blankly into space, which, while odd and not winning him any points in Sam’s book, gives Sam the opportunity to study him.

He is sitting cross-legged on the ground and is wearing a tartan sweater vest and tie, putting him at odds with both the weather and the century. He has curly blonde hair and intense but distant blue eyes covered by thick glasses, and his face is round, open and pleasant-looking. His hands are clasped together in his lap, as if in supplication.

Or prayer.

He doesn’t look particularly dangerous, but Sam knows better than to put any stock in appearances. He frowns and clears his throat.

The man startles, his gaze snapping into focus and turning to Sam. “Oh!” he exclaims. “Oh, my apologies. Have you been waiting there very long?”

His accent is distinctly British. Sam’s frown deepens. “Hi,” he says, trying for a smile and only sort of succeeding, “Sorry to bother you--” He isn’t-- “but I saw you sitting here and I wondered if you needed any help.” There’s something to be said about the direct approach, of course, but he doesn’t want to be too confrontational at the start.

The man looks around him, as if noticing his surroundings for the first time. He clambers to his feet, and despite sitting in the dirt for who knows how long, his clothes appear completely clean. Sam takes a step back, readying himself.

“Terribly sorry,” the man says. “Did I concern you? It’s just such a nice day that I couldn’t help myself.”

This is objectively true. It’s warm but not yet hot, humid but not muggy, and the wind whistling through the trees and the constant warbling of birds makes for some nice ambiance. And so far, nothing about this man is screaming ‘threat’. But Sam can’t help but notice how neatly he avoided giving any substantial information, and frankly, even if he were merely enjoying the nice day, there is still no reason for him to be doing so here, miles away from any other people and with no mode of transportation in sight.

Oh well. Time for the direct approach, then.

“Who are you?” Sam asks. The man blinks and tilts his head slightly.

“Ezra Fell,” he replies, sounding a bit confused. “It’s a pleasure to meet you…?” He trails off, clearly hoping for an introduction in return, but Sam zeroes in on the way his eyes slide off to the left while he speaks. He has his gun drawn, cocked, and pointed before he even has time to think about it.

“Try again,” he suggests, “but this time, lie better.”

The man stares down the barrel of the gun with nothing but mild consternation on his face. “This really is just my luck, isn’t it?” he says. “None of that, please.” He waves a hand, and the gun--

\--vanishes.

“If we weren’t going to have a civil conversation, I don’t see why you bothered,” the man is saying, but Sam in no longer paying attention. He left the angel blade in the trunk of his car, which in retrospect was unbelievably stupid of him. It had been so difficult to acquire, but it was one of the first things he went after once he decided to go hunting again. Angels were evil at worst and only dubiously helpful at best, and he was tired of them fucking with his life. Thus, the desire to be able to kill one.

And now, there is an angel in front of him, and the angel blade is _in his car_.

His second best option here is to stall for time. So he does.

“You’re an angel,” he says, and the man stops talking and stares at him in surprise.

“I… am,” he says, “actually, yes. How on earth did you guess that?” His eyes flicker behind him, to his car, then back to his face. “Are you a hunter perhaps? Oh, but I thought the hunting community didn’t put much stock in angels actually existing. So who are you?”

“I am a hunter, actually,” Sam replies. “There are probably still some hunters who don’t believe in angels, but after everything that’s happened in the past couple of years, they’re in the minority.” He shifts his weight onto the balls of his feet, preparing to make a break for his car. Then, the rest of the angel’s question catches up with him. “Who am I?” he asks. “You’re an angel and you _don’t_ know who I am?”

“I… no. Should I?” The angel is looking more and more baffled by the second, which pretty much matches how Sam feels. The angel is out here in the middle of nowhere seemingly for no damn reason, has taken his gun but otherwise made no threatening moves, and now doesn’t even know who he, the vessel of Lucifer and literal starter of the Apocalypse, is? Something here isn’t adding up, and he’s starting to wish he had driven by and avoided this whole thing to begin with.

“I’m Sam Winchester,” he says. “I literally started the Apocalypse. You seriously don’t know who I am?” The angel could be lying, of course, but if he was, Sam thinks he would try for something a little bit more believable. Plus, he’s already proved himself to be not so great at it; he couldn’t even use a fake name without giving himself away.

The angel shakes his head, his eyes wide. Sam is inexplicably reminded of Cas. “I… your name sounds familiar, but I don’t… and what do you mean, you started the Apocalypse? To my knowledge, that’s not… unless you… oh dear Father, was there _another_ one?”

What.

“What,” Sam says, “the hell are you talking about, _another_ one? Have you been living under a rock?” This comes out slightly more accusing than he intended, and as he finds himself glaring at the angel, the angel glares right back. At length, the angel visibly composes himself, standing up just a little bit straighter.

“Right then,” he declares. “Forgive my manners. My name is Aziraphale, former guardian of the Eastern Gate of Eden. And to answer your question, I do believe I’ve just recently been _dead_ , and I have no idea where or when I am, so if you could tell me that much I would be much obliged.”

Sam narrows his eyes.

As far as he knows, only God can resurrect angels. And what with how absent God has tended to be, if He’s resurrected this angel in particular, he must be important somehow.

The angel could still be lying. But it’s probably not a good idea to kill him just yet. Though he’ll be sure to keep the blade handy from now on.

“Right, okay, sorry,” he says. “We’re in northern California, and it’s 2010. July.” He’s lost track of the day.

“America,” the angel, Aziraphale, mutters. “That would explain a lot.” He blinks. “Did you say 2010?”

Sam nods.

Aziraphale looks vaguely nauseous. “Seventeen years,” he breathes. “Oh dear. And… there was another Apocalypse?”

“You keep saying another,” Sam says. “There was one before this?”

“Yes, in 1990. That one got stopped by the Antichrist. What happened this time?”

There is so much to unpack here, Sam has no idea where to start. “It’s kind of a long story,” he hedges.

“I would like to hear it,” Aziraphale says.

A moment of silence.

“If… if it’s not too much trouble,” Aziraphale says. “That is, I wouldn’t want to keep you or impose…” He trails off, obviously wanting to do both of these things, and Sam sighs. This is probably not the best idea he’s ever had, but he’s been in the game too long to believe in coincidences. He’s met this angel for a reason, and if he plays his cards right, there must be a way to use him.

“You can come with me, if you want,” he offers. “I’m heading down to LA to take care of a vamp nest, and we could talk on the way there.”

Aziraphale brightens. “Oh, could we?” he says, fiddling with his spectacles.

He shrugs. “Yeah, sure. I’d feel bad about leaving you here by yourself anyway.” He wouldn’t really, but there’s no need for the angel to know that. He gestures to the car, and the angel moves past him to climb in, seeming almost eager to do so. Interesting, how this angel seems to feel human emotions, more so than almost any other angel he’s met.

He climbs into the driver’s seat, though not before grabbing the angel blade out of the trunk and sticking it into his jacket.

Surprisingly enough, Aziraphale is silent for the first twenty or so minutes of driving, seemingly content to stare out the window at the trees passing by.

“It seems like such a long time since I’ve seen any sort of forest,” he finally murmurs, “and yet no time at all.” He turns back to Sam. “Tell me about this Apocalypse.”

Sam nods, keeping his eyes straight ahead and organizing events in his mind, wondering exactly how much or how little is wise to reveal. “My brother and I started it,” he says. “Mostly me. We’re the vessels of the archangels; Dean’s Michael’s, and I’m Lucifer’s. I’d been groomed for it my entire life, and eventually, I was the one to break the last seal and let Lucifer out of the Cage.”

Interestingly, that’s not the part the Aziraphale focuses on. “You have a brother?” he asks. “Where is he now?”

“He gave up hunting,” Sam says. “Lives with his girlfriend and her son.” Not a lie, even if it’s not the whole truth.

Aziraphale nods. “And Lucifer?” he asks. “How did you defeat him? Or at least, I assume you defeated him, since the world is still standing.”

“I said yes to him,” he says. “And then I won back control and jumped back into the Cage with him.”

A long pause.

“You fought an archangel for control of your body,” Aziraphale says slowly, “and you won.”

“Yes.”

“And you jumped back into the Cage with him.”

“And Michael,” he adds. “He was wearing our half-brother.”

“Oh, yes. And Michael. Of course,” Aziraphale says faintly. “Why not? But, Sam, er, is it alright if I call you Sam?”

It takes Sam a moment to realize that he’s actually waiting for an answer. This guy is weirdly polite, but he supposes it might have something to do with the British theme he’s got going on. “Um, yeah.”

The angel nods. “Then how did you escape, Sam, if you don’t mind my asking?”

He does mind the asking, a little, but he’s the one who’s been allowing this line of questioning, so he supposes he has only himself to blame. “I don’t know,” he replies. “I woke up in the same cemetery where we opened the door to the Cage. Alone, no memory of anything that happened after I jumped.”

Another pause.

“You were in the Cage with two archangels, and you don’t remember any of it at all?”Aziraphale asks.

“It’s a complete blank,” he agrees. “Why, is that weird? I figured it was just me blocking out the trauma. The mind can do that, you know, for protection.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says, “but… I don’t mean to worry you, but I haven’t been able to sense your soul at all since we met. I thought that perhaps I was merely weakened by my… experience, but… are you sure that whatever or whoever brought you out did so… correctly? Did they bring all of you out?”

He opens his mouth to snap back a ‘yes, of course’, but pauses to consider. Can he be sure? He has no idea what resurrected him, after all; if it was Cas, he isn’t bothering to say so. And there have been… subtle differences about himself lately, little things that he’s been noticing more and more. That he doesn’t need sleep, for one thing, and that he’s been finding it much easier to not let himself be distracted by his emotions. Or feel emotions at all.

“You’re saying you think I’m missing my soul,” he says, and wonders at how unalarmed he feels at the prospect. He should feel concerned, he thinks, at the very least, but there’s nothing there.

“Not to be rude, but yes, I believe there’s a distinct possibility,” Aziraphale says.

He considers this. One one hand, objectively, not having a soul is probably not good. He can imagine what the look on Dean’s face would be if he found out: angry, worried, maybe even a little scared. But on the other hand, he hasn’t suffered any ill effects from the absence, if there is an absence, and his instincts as a hunter are better than ever. Would it even be a good idea to get it back? If it’s still in the Cage with the archangels, it must be incredibly damaged by now, and inflicting such damage on himself seems very unwise.

“Well,” he says, when the silence in the car has grown too thick, “if it is gone, there’s not really much I can do about it is there? Besides, I’m a great hunter now, so maybe I’m better off this way.”

When the angel speaks, his voice is quiet, barely audible. “You would leave your soul at the mercy of Michael and Lucifer?” he says.

Sam shrugs. “Better it than me.”

The angel doesn’t seem to have a response to that, thought when Sam looks over, his fists are clenched and shaking in his lap, and his face is as white as a sheet.

They barely speak at all for the rest of the day, and Sam dries on and on without stopping, long after the sun has peaked and dipped below the horizon, casting the road into shadow. He continues to drive even as his brother checks into a motel hundreds of miles away, and just like so many nights before this one, exhaustion does not find him. Aziraphale, for his part, remains mostly quiet and unobtrusive, and while Sam does not know this angel nearly well enough to know whether that’s normal or not, he decides not to worry about it. He has an angel blade, after all, and Aziraphale doesn’t seem like much of a fighter. If the angel is planning something, he’s confident in his ability to defend himself, no skin off his back.

So if Aziraphale occasionally casts him wary, worried sideways glances, he does not notice them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... Enter Aziraphale. Oh dear.
> 
> Thank you so much for all the kudos and subscriptions, and especially the comments! I live and breathe off of feedback, even if it's just a word or two, so please! Tell me what you think!
> 
> One more thing: I'm going to try to keep my update schedule to every Sunday, as much as I can. However, I'm going to be out of town next weekend, so the next update will be this coming Friday rather than on Sunday.
> 
> Next Chapter: An explanation is given as to what happened to Aziraphale seventeen years ago.


	3. In Which There is Some Backstory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter does include a brief overview of Good Omens, just in case there's anyone who happens to be reading this fic without having read the book. So, warnings for spoilers for Good Omens, and also for (temporary) character death.

Once upon a time, there was an angel and a demon.

The angel and the demon knew each other from the very Beginning; the demon tempted Eve into eating the apple, inventing Original Sin, and the angel gave her his flaming sword for warmth and lied straight to God’s face about it afterward, as one does. And the two had a very amicable conversation in the Garden as they watched the first thunderstorm empty the skies.

The two were meant to be eternal enemies, the representation of the battle between Good and Evil on the Earth. And they were, for about five thousand years, until they sat down together and figured that really, there had to be a better way to go about this.

So it came to pass that the twentieth century rolled about, and the angel and the demon lived in London together.

In Soho, to be exact.

The angel and the demon had come to an Arrangement. The angel would save people with his miracles and the demon would damn people with his tempting, and sometimes they would each do the other’s job if they were too busy. Then they would dine at the Ritz and sometimes go down to the park to feed the ducks together. It was all very domestic, and much easier than fighting each other all the time. They had separate living spaces, but that was mostly so that they could deny anything than complete enmity toward each other, if anyone asked.

Nobody ever did, mostly because the two of them were the worst-kept secret since time began.

And so things went par the course, up until the apocalypse. Which was meant to be the Apocalypse, really, but the Antichrist decided to cancel, leaving the two of them standing in a military base in Lower Tadfield with the uncomfortable realization that they had tried to stop it, rebelling against both of their respective Sides, for no good reason. Though there had been a good reason at the time, of course. They had both been on Earth since the Beginning, and they had no intention of giving that up. But now that it was over and neither of them had ended up doing all that much, they both felt foolish.

“You know,” said the angel, who was holding a flaming sword, “I think we’d best get home.”

“Yes,” said the demon, who was holding a tire iron, “let’s.”

And so they did. And for a few years, nothing seemed to come of it. The demon continued to torture the plants in his apartment, and the angel continued to not sell books to various degrees of success, and on the rare occasion when the demon could convince the angel to sleep, they did so side by side. They fed the ducks and ate at the Ritz and visited the Antichrist every now and then to make sure he hadn’t changed his mind about not destroying the world, and also because he really was rather a nice boy once one got past the whole spawn of the Devil thing. And also because he was still technically their godson.

Life went on.

But Heaven does not suffer humiliation, and Hell does not suffer defeat. For once, the two Sides were in perfect agreement; the angel and the demon needed to go.

 

* * *

 

 

It was a Monday, and a very nice one at that, insofar as a Monday can be nice at all. The sun was, for once, shining brightly, Meat Loaf played constantly on the radio, and hope and love were high in the air. It was 1993, and there was nowhere to go but up.

And yet, as soon as the day dawned, Aziraphale knew that something was going to happen. There was an underlying tension to the high spirits of the day, one that set his fingers trembling and almost made him drop his cup as he tried to prepare his tea. No human would have been able to sense it, but to the angel, it felt as if the world was holding its breath, one last gasp before the drowning.

The last time he felt like this was before he was discorporated in the burning of the Library of Alexandria. Not even the apocalypse had inspired this pervasive dread.

He sat in his backroom and drank his tea and watched the light outside strengthen from a warm orange wash to a bright yellow glare. And then he set to work. The bookshop would not run itself, after all, which was to say that the potential customers would not leave if he was not there to run them off. And the books would not read or dust themselves either. Keep calm and carry on and all that, even if, on the inside, he was the exact opposite of calm.

As the morning drew on closer to noon, the angel was visited by a realtor. The realtor gave several arguments as to why exactly Aziraphale should pack up and move shop, and also offered several shark-like smiles that were probably meant to be warm and comforting. But the angel met these smirks tit for tat, and the realtor left fifteen minutes after he arrived, vaguely confused and certain that there was something he was supposed to be doing.

Dimly, Aziraphale hoped that _that_ was the worst thing that was going to occur today. But his trepidation only continued to grow.

The demon stopped by not too long after the realtor left, and was overall much more pleasant company. They had tea and sandwiches, and the demon brought cream puffs, and it was all almost enough to make Aziraphale forget that something terrible was about to happen.

“You’re acting off,” the demon said. “Is something the matter?”

For a moment, the angel considered admitting to it. But if he did, then the demon would want to stay, and then who knew what would happen. He wasn’t yet sure what threat was coming, and he refused to risk having the demon’s blood on his hands.

“No, nothing,” he replied.

The demon squinted. Aziraphale could not see the squint, as the demon’s eyes were covered by dark sunglasses, but Aziraphale knew the demon too well to think he wasn’t squinting, or something equivalent. “We still on for tonight, then?” the demon asked. He sounded worried.

Aziraphale managed a smile. “Yes, of course,” he said. “Wouldn’t miss it for anything.” The words left a sour taste in his mouth, and he barely suppressed a wince. He suspected that he had just lied, which was not something he liked to make a habit of doing.

The demon did not seem at all convinced, but he also seemed either unwilling or unable to push. “Right then, I’m off,” he said.

“Dear,” Aziraphale called, just before the demon stepped through the door, “you know that I love you, don’t you?”

The demon froze. Turned slowly. “Yeah,” he said, and his voice was raspy, “yeah, I know. What’s this about, angel?”

The angel drank in the sight of him. He suspected it would be the last time. “Nothing in particular,” he said. “I just wanted to say it.”

The demon shook his head helplessly. Then, he left.

The call came in not long after that. Actually, the call came in twice, as the angel did not pick up quick enough the first time, and the pre-recorded message played out: “-- oh, now it’s _blinking_ , what am I supposed to do now-- _we discussed this, angel, just say you’re not in_ \-- but I am in, I’m always in-- _that’sss not the point_ \-- oh look, now it’s beepi--” But no message was left, and the phone began to ring again after only a few seconds, so Aziraphale was left with no choice but to answer.

“Er, hello?” the angel asked.

“Hullo,” said the Antichrist.

For a moment, Aziraphale considered slamming the phone back down on the receiver. But that would be rude, and Adam was a pleasant enough boy, really; it wasn’t his fault he almost destroyed the world and could still do so at any point in time should he be so inclined.

Also, if he was calling, it had to be important. Usually, Adam waited for them to come to him.

“Ah,” said Aziraphale. “Adam.”

“Yeah,” said Adam, “it’s me. I s’ppose you know why I’m calling then?”

Aziraphale wondered if he should play ignorant. But then, that wouldn’t solve the problem, so what would be the point? “Yes,” he admitted, “I have some idea. I suppose I should have expected you to know something about it.” How the boy knew what he knew was beyond him, most of the time; he rather suspected that Adam, once introduced to the world of the supernatural, was quick in establishing contacts. “I, er, don’t suppose you know any specifics?”

For a moment, Adam was silent, and Aziraphale could easily picture the look on his face: solemn, pondering, a little sad, a little too old and wise for his age. “Not really,” he said, “but I can tell it’s not going to be nice. And it’s going to happen at about sixteen hundred.”

The angel glanced at the clock. That gave him about two hours. “Well,” he sighed, “thank you anyway.” He hesitated. “I hate to trouble you, but… do you think you could…” He trailed off, but Adam seemed to know exactly what he meant.

“If I call him, he’ll know something’s wrong,” Adam said frankly.

The angel winced. “Yes,” he agreed.

Adam fell quiet again. “I could ask Miss Anathema to ask him over for tea,” he said at length. “She does it often enough that he won’t be suspicious, and he might even go. But he’ll be very angry about it afterward, you know.”

 _Better alive to be angry than dead_ , the angel very carefully did not say, though he suspected Adam heard it anyway. “Thank you,” he said aloud. “Really.”

“It’s the least I can do,” Adam replied. “You’re a good person.” Aziraphale opened his mouth to protest that he wasn’t really a person at all, but Adam cut him off. “You are,” he insisted. “Better than a lot, even if you are sort of stuffy.”

The angel didn’t reply, because he found that his mouth had suddenly gone very dry. “Thank you,” he finally managed to rasp. “Goodbye Adam.”

“Goodbye Mister Aziraphale,” replied the Antichrist. And he hung up, leaving Aziraphale to listen to static on the other end, holding the phone in loose fingers. His heart felt as heavy as lead. There was nothing he could do now to escape what was coming, nowhere he could go, nothing he could say.

He placed the phone gently back on the receiver. His hands, he noted vaguely, were trembling. Not because he was scared, of course. There was never any point in being scared of the inevitable. Of the ineffable. It was all a part of His plan, after all, and he simply had to trust that He had the right idea.

He wasn’t scared.

But his hands would not stop trembling.

 

* * *

 

 

They arrived at precisely six minutes ‘til the hour. One moment, they were absent, and the next, they were there, materializing in the space between blinks. The shop, formerly empty, was filled with the pressure of extended wings and too much angelic grace in a single enclosed space. There were three, two man-shaped and one woman-shaped, all impeccably dressed, stern, stiff, and glaring.

Aziraphale marked his place in his book and placed his teacup back in its saucer. He rose from where he was sitting behind the store counter. “Hello,” he said politely. “Can I help you?”

The three angels exchanged glances. The woman-shaped one stepped forward, her spine ramrod-straight and her gaze imperious. “You are the Principality Aziraphale?” the angel asked.

Aziraphale inclined his head. “I am,” he replied, “though no doubt you already knew that. Hello, Ezekiel,” he added, meeting the lead angel’s eyes. And, turning to the two others, “Hello, Hester. Hello, Hannah. It’s lovely to see the three of you. Might I interest you in a cup of tea? The kettle should still be hot.”

“We are here on the orders of the Archangel Michael,” said Ezekiel, as if he had not spoken. “It has been decreed that we are to pass judgement upon you for your crimes.” An angel blade dropped down into her hand, and, seconds later, into the hands of the other two as well.

“Ah,” said Aziraphale. “I see. May I ask what the charges are?”

“Rebellion against Heaven,” Hannah spoke up. “And consorting with the Enemy.” His face-- or the vessel’s face, at any rate-- contorted into an expression of distaste, and his fingers tightened around his blade.

“Rebellion against Heaven?” Aziraphale questioned. He shook his head. “My dear, if I had rebelled against Heaven, don’t you think I would have Fallen by now? And yet, here I stand, as angelic as you.” He spread his arms wide and smiled, and the three angels exchanged glances again. “Or is this about the failed Apocalypse?” he continued. “If it was really Father’s plan for that one to work, don’t you think it would have done regardless of whether I interfered or not? Unless you don’t have that much faith in Him?” He was proud of himself for coming up with that one; he thought it was quite a neat little trap.

And maybe, had he tried it several thousand years ago, it would have worked. But Heaven had changed, and Aziraphale, mostly free of its machinations, had not.

“It is not our place to question,” Ezekiel finally said. “And even if what you said was true, there is still the other matter. It has been confirmed that you have dealings with a demon on a regular basis.”

“Erm,” said Aziraphale. “Yes, well. Do you know, this is the first time anyone’s actually kicked up a fuss about that? I’m rather surprised that anyone is bothering to care at this point.”

The expressions on the angels’ faces did not change.

“Oh, for pity’s sake,” said Aziraphale. “I’ve been trying to turn him to our side. And I’ve been making a lot of headway, too. He’s not nearly as evil as he used to be. And besides. _But I say unto you, love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute you_ ,” he quoted. An airtight defense, he thought.

Silence fell.

“You have been declared a traitor to Heaven,” Hannah said, “and you dare to quote scripture at us?”

If Aziraphale didn’t know better, he would think that was outrage.

He was beginning to feel a little outraged himself, actually.

“I am no _traitor_ \--” he began, but Ezekiel raised a hand to cut him off.

“Aziraphale, former Guardian of the Eastern Gate of Eden, chosen Agent of Heaven on Earth, for your crimes you have been sentenced to die,” Ezekiel said, and raised her sword.

Aziraphale watched the dim light of his bookstore reflect off the edge of the weapon. He could see his own face in it: tired, frightened, but holding fast. “On whose authority?” he asked quietly.

“The very highest,” Ezekiel answered.

“So, God’s?”

A moment of silence. “Michael’s,” Hannah answered. “Is that not good enough for you?”

“I am loyal to our Father,” Aziraphale returned, his voice still soft. He flexed his fingers, and his own blade fell into his hand. The weight was unfamiliar to him; he hadn’t had cause to use it since before the Arrangement was drafted. He very much disliked violence, or at least, violence without a good cause. No point in making things messy if they didn’t have to be, after all.

Ezekiel made the first move, slashing forward, but Aziraphale was ready, dodging around his counter and facing them with his blade raised and wings outstretched, a hair’s breadth from manifesting on the physical plane.

“You honestly think you can stand against all three of us?” Hannah demanded.

“I think it would be remiss of me not to try,” Aziraphale retorted. “I have no intention of dying today.”

The three of them moved forward in unison then, attacking from all sides, and Aziraphale was hard-pressed to fend off all three of them at once. But he was older than them and more experienced, even if he was rusty, and so he managed to hold his own. And even besides that, he was used to an opponent who used far more underhanded tactics, the lack of which almost made the fight feel like child’s play.

A swipe from Hester, which he dodged, before sidestepping Hannah and Ezekiel. Another parry, a counterstroke, a swivel. He took a cut across his arm in order to sink his blade into Hannah’s shoulder, and the angel fell back with an exclamation. Hester bore down on him with a flurry of blows, which he blocked before ducking around to place Ezekiel between them.

The angels’ faces became increasingly frustrated as they found themselves unable to leave any significant wounds on their opponent.

“You know,” said Aziraphale, panting as he batted aside Hester’s blade once again, “we could all just go home at this point, I think. You did your best, I did my best, and we’re all still alive so why don’t we go ahead and call it a day, yes?”

“We will not leave until our duty is fulfilled,” Ezekiel snarled.

“Well, it was worth a try,” Aziraphale said, and took a cut on his cheek for his trouble.

The truth was, he was terribly out of practice. And he was getting tired.

“Enough of this,” Hannah said. The angel was still standing back, one hand gripping his shoulder in a vain attempt to stop the grace from leaking out of the wound. “If you were truly still loyal to our Father, you would accept your punishment with dignity.”

“I’m not one to take death lying down,” Aziraphale retorted. “Thank you.”

Hester stepped in, locking their blades together. “And what of your demon?” he hissed, speaking for the first time. “Will he take death lying down, I wonder, of will he fight back as you have? How many wounds will we have to deal him before he perishes?”

Aziraphale gritted his teeth and shoved Hester back, drawing himself up to his full height. “I’ll thank you kindly,” he said icily, “not to touch him.” In that moment, he looked every inch the righteous avenging angel he was, his eyes flashing with fire and his wings flaring out to their full length. The lights in the store flickered wildly, and outside, clouds gathered.

Then, Hester’s eyes cut to one side, and Aziraphale realized his mistake.

He wheeled around, but it was too late; he’d forgotten, if only for a moment, that he was facing more than one opponent, and the force of Ezekiel’s blow drove him back against a bookshelf, pinning him to the wood. Pain burst in his chest, and he tried to bring up his blade to strike back, but Hannah darted back in and knocked it out of his hand.

And just like that, it was over.

“You are finished,” the angel declared, and Aziraphale coughed weakly.

“Maybe so,” he said, though he could feel the truth in the words. His vision was beginning to darken already, and his grace was flowing out of the wound at an alarming rate.

Oh, but that _hurt_.

He had known that this was how it was going to end up, but that was little comfort. He shifted, trying to unpin himself, but that only served to cause a spasm of pain, bright and red-hot.

 _Nothing for it anymore_ , he thought.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Hester lean in, the angel’s form growing blurry. “Where is the demon?” he angel questioned. “Tell us now and we will ensure its death is quick. We are not without mercy, brother.”

Aziraphale coughed again. The pain was dulling now, numbness settling into his limbs. His vision swam, and the words seemed to filter in from down a long tunnel.

“My dears,” he said weakly, “I haven’t seen him since just after the Apocalypse. I suspect he’s left the country.” Yet another lie-- he sure was racking up a lot of them today-- but for this one, he could feel no guilt.

Hester opened his mouth, as if to protest, but Ezekiel raised a hand, sending the other angel a sharp look. “Then be at peace, brother,” she said, “and may you find forgiveness for your actions.”

“Forgiveness,” Aziraphale whispered. He could feel nothing now, could see almost nothing. He reached out with bloodstained fingers, and his hand hit something solid. “Yes, forgiveness. It’s alright. I forgive you.”

He smiled, and everything ended in a flash of light.

The angels stared at the empty shell that had once housed one of their own. Ezekiel took a step back, and the body’s fingers fell from where they had been resting on her chest, though they left a dark stain on her vessel’s otherwise pristine suit. The expression on her vessel’s face was disturbed; she shook her head at the other two, warning them not to comment.

“Our duty is done,” she said, and pulled her blade from the body, which slumped to the floor. “We return to Heaven.”

Hester and Hannah nodded. It was not their place to question.

The sound of wingbeats filled the room, and the angels left. Outside, the sun shone as bright as it had been all day. The blood spread across the floor, and all was quiet.

 

* * *

 

 

Here is what Aziraphale will never know. Here is what happened after.

The demon went to tea with a witch named Anathema. He didn’t say it, but he was grateful for the reprieve; Hell had been trying harder than usual to assassinate him recently, and he knew that no demon would ever dare to mess with Anathema. He suspected that she knew something of the situation, or that she knew _something_ , at least; there was sympathy in her eyes when she looked at him.

Then, he went to St. James park and fed the ducks. And he waited for the angel.

The angel did not come.

That was when he began to grow concerned; the angel was never late. Never. Lateness was one vice the angel absolutely refused to indulge in.

It was with growing anxiety that he made his way to the angel’s bookshop. The bell tingled when he entered, as it always did, and he was hit with the familiar scent of books, old and well-loved, and half-drunk tea.

And the blood. Its coppery tang coated the roof of his mouth and covered his snakeskin shoes and seeped into the heart he liked to pretend he didn’t have. And there it stayed.

The angel’s body was slumped by a bookshelf, crumpled on its side. Wisps of grace floated on the air, as did a few dusty white feathers. The demon approached cautiously; the grace stung his arms and face, but he didn’t notice. The angel’s eyes were closed, and his face was still and peaceful. If it weren’t for the gaping wound in his chest, he could be sleeping.

Only, the angel almost never slept.

The demon nudged the angel with his foot. Nothing happened. He did it again, and--

\--and the angel shot upright with a gasp, his wound closing up and his clothes repairing themselves.

“My dear!” he exclaimed. “Oh, thank goodness you got here in time!” And the demon knelt and wrapped his arms around the angel, because that was too close, far, _far_ too close, and what he would do if he lost this angel, he didn’t know, and--

\--and nothing happened, and the angel was still dead, and no amount of wishing or praying could change that, and the demon could feel something inside of himself snapping. Because the ashy imprints of wings marked the bookshelf behind him, proof that the angel was well and truly, incontrovertibly gone.

The demon knelt beside the corpse, and the blood soaked into his suit.

“Aziraphale,” he said, “you idiot.” A fond smile tried to make its way onto his face, but the tears streaming down his cheeks-- and when did _that_ start happening, he wondered-- twisted it into something more like grief.

The angel was dead.

His angel was _dead_.

His angel was dead, had been _killed_ , and the lingering presence of foreign heavenly grace made it obvious enough who to blame. The demon sniffed miserably. A feather drifted down in front of his face, and he plucked it out of the air, turning it this way and that before tucking it into his pocket. And he stood. Looked around the shop with tear-blurred vision.

 _I am never coming back here again,_ he thought. For why would he? What was left for him here? There was only one thing left to do now, and that was to tear Heaven down, brick by sodding brick if he had to. If he had to fell the pearly gates with his own two hands, he would. What else could he do?

He thought all of this calmly, detachedly. And if there was a voice in the back of his mind that whispered, quite emphatically, that _Aziraphale wouldn’t want that_ , he ignored it, because Aziraphale was dead, and honestly, when left to his own devices, he was a demon through and through, and now he was a demon with nothing left to lose.

He spent the next year being incredibly drunk.

He spent the next year after that coming up with a plan.

And so he took his car, his lovely 1926 Bentley, and put it in storage. It was too recognizable, after all. He abandoned his body and possessed the first brain-dead bloke he came across in the hospital. He re-entered Hell with a new face and a new game, and no one recognized him. He placed wards on the shop and his own apartment, wards so strong that nothing less powerful than an archangel would be able to break them.

The angel’s body, he left where it lay. The remains of an angel never rot, touched by Holy power as they are, and so there the angel would stay, a shrine to Heaven’s greatest mistake. The demon could not bring himself to do anything different.

He looked at the angel one last time, memorizing the sight of him. It would imprint itself on the back of his eyelids, would glare at him every time he closed his eyes from now on. Yes, the angel looked like he was sleeping, but he knew better.

“Goodbye, angel,” the demon whispered. And he left.

There was work to do, after all. Heaven wouldn’t topple itself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there you have it folks. Aziraphale's death has had a lot more consequences than he's realized so far.
> 
> 'I'd Do Anything For Love (But I Won't Do That)' by Meat Loaf was top of the chart of the top 100 singles in the UK in 1993. Thus the reference to Meat Loaf playing on the radio. I've never heard this song, but hey, you learn something new every day.
> 
> Sunday updates will now resume, with the next one being June 24th. Thank you so much to everyone who's kudoed, bookmarked, and especially commented! I hold each one close to my heart and cry.
> 
> Next Chapter: Castiel pines and then makes a potentially ill-advised deal with a demon. Not as ill-advised as in canon. But maybe still not a good idea. Or maybe it is, who knows. Demons are confusing.


	4. In Which Castiel Fakes It Til He Makes It

Castiel hears him on the battlefield.

At first he believes he is mistaken. He is surrounded by a cacophony, cries and shouts and the beating of wings and the clashing of blades; the only silence here is in death. So surely, _surely_ the sound of his voice is no more than wishful thinking, a memory of time past. It has been a long time since Dean prayed to him, after all, at least by Heaven’s reckoning, and he has only just managed to convince himself that perhaps it is for the better.

But the voice is still there, continues to speak, and the realization of what he’s hearing makes him stumble; he has to catch himself, remind himself that here, there is no one he truly trusts to guard him, that the only one he knows for certain will protect him is himself. Balthazar, he trusted, but Balthazar is gone, and so he can never allow himself to relax.

But Dean’s voice resonates in his mind as clear as the ringing of a thousand church bells, driving him to distraction.

_If there’s something going on, let me know, alright?_

_Let me know you’re alright._

_Dean,_ he thinks, and he wants to go to him, wants to leave the battle and answer his prayer, though he knows he shouldn’t, knows he can’t. He is general here, and their success depends on him. And even besides that, his powers are fully restored and then some; he should not be so susceptible to human emotions. Especially not here, in the midst of a war, when feelings are liable to get him killed.

He should not miss Dean as much as he does.

So he shoulders this burden with all the rest, and he does not allow himself to think on it again until the battle is over and the wounded and dead are counted and the cost of the fight is determined. No ground was gained today, and Castiel hates it, hates that lives were wasted on this stalemate, hates that even still so many of his brothers and sisters look to him to lead them, hates that he has no idea whether or not they can even win. Raphael did not show himself today, and it is lucky that he did not; if he did, their losses would have been far worse, for none of them have the power to stand against a wrathful archangel.

He should be reflecting on this, he knows, and on strategies for the fighting to come. But his attention is divided. And will remain so, he realizes, until he does something about it.

He finds his nearest lieutenant, Amriel, and informs her that he will be making a visit to Earth. Amriel nods and agrees to relay that to the others, and Castiel almost wishes she would protest, because the whole point of this war is not only to stop Raphael but also to show his siblings free will. There is a part of him that wants them to question him, wants them to start thinking for themselves, no matter how difficult that might make his task. He has no desire to become another Michael.

Even still, he is relieved. It has been too long since he was last on Earth.

He wings his way down, slipping himself into his vessel in a way that has become second nature to him. He has spent the last immeasurable amount of time as a multidimensional wavelength of celestial intent, but when he flexes his fingers, the motion is familiar, almost comforting. He can imagine, for a moment, that there is no war in Heaven at all. That everything is as it once was.

He flies to Dean. Just like always. Lets the star-bright beacon of his soul guide him.

He expects to find him at the residence of Lisa Braeden and her son. He expects to find him safe, and, if not happy, content at least, living the normal life his brother wished for him, away from hunting, away from pain.

He does not expect to find him in a derelict motel on an abandoned highway, in a room that stinks of rot and mold and other, even less desirable things.

Castiel stares. Dean is asleep, the lights turned off and the curtains closed. He has drawn all the proper sigils, Castiel is pleased to note, and has erected satisfactory salt lines. His time away from hunting has not made him complacent, that much is clear.

But that begs the question: why would Dean leave his life with the Braedens? Has Castiel erred somehow? Surely not; Sam himself turned and walked away from his brother rather than reveal himself, so keeping his distance must have been the right decision. Dean has been through much already. He does not deserve to be senselessly dragged into Castiel’s problems.

But then why is he here? And how does he know that anything is amiss in Heaven at all? Perhaps, he thinks, Raphael has begun to target him, has sent angels after him, and the thought makes his fists clench because Raphael has _no right_. But no; surely Dean would have been more agitated in his prayer had that occurred, more demanding. There is no sign of a struggle here, and Dean seems to be uninjured.

For a moment, he considers revealing himself. But Dean is sleeping soundly, and besides, he would be unsure of his welcome. And if Dean still does not know the particulars of what is happening, he is loathe to drag him into the middle of it.

No. Better to keep away. For both their sakes.

Dean shifts, rolling over, a scowl twisting his face as he murmurs in his sleep. Castiel senses the presence a moment before the other speaks.

“Not much to look at, is he?”

Castiel wheels, and the other raises his hands in a mockery of compliance. His posture is relaxed, non-threatening, and so Castiel holds himself back from smiting him. For now.

“Now, now,” Crowley says. “Is that any way to greet an old friend? Hello, Castiel.”

“You and I are not friends,” he snarls, looking at the demon in revulsion. He has not seen Crowley since the Apocalypse, and he has no desire to be seeing him now. Especially not here, as Dean sleeps mere feet away, oblivious to their presence. He will have to be doubly on his guard, then; should the demon attack, it will be up to him to protect Dean. “How did you find me?” he demands.

Crowley rolls his eyes. “Like you make it hard,” he says. “I’ve had eyes on Winchester since he started moving. Thought he might start stirring up trouble. And what do you know, here you are, pining away. Fantastic Edward impression, by the way. Were you planning on talking to him, or were you just going to stand there and stare all night?”

“I don’t see how it’s any business of yours what I do.”

“On the contrary,” Crowley corrects, “what you do is very much my business, considering how much you and yours like to muck up my life. I’ve finally got a good thing going, so if you’re going to start dragging others into the mess you’ve made upstairs, I want to know about it.”

Castiel shakes his head. “I have no intention of involving Dean.” He won’t ask how Crowley knows about the situation in Heaven. If he really has made himself the King of Hell, he’s sure he has his sources.

Crowley cocks an eyebrow. “You do need help, though,” he says.

And really, how is he supposed to respond to that? As much as it grates, the demon isn’t wrong, not technically; Castiel is hopelessly outclassed, in both terms of power and in the size of his forces. Facing Raphael in a direct fight without the ability to retreat would surely result in his death. But he doesn’t like how Crowley is looking at him, with a light in his eyes, like a predator regarding his prey. And with something else there too, something that Castiel cannot identify, an intensity that he does not want to examine too closely. This demon is dangerous, and while he is confident in his ability to deal with him should the need arise, he should still be cautious.

Crowley wouldn’t approach him without a reason, after all, and he doubts it will be an agreeable one.

“What are you doing here?” he grits out, rather than respond to the statement.

Crowley smirks. “I want to help you help me help ourselves,” he says.

What is _that_ supposed to mean? “Speak plain.”

“I want to discuss a simple business transaction. That’s all.” The demon sighs. “Honestly. You’re so desperately in need of help, it’s pathetic. Luckily, I find myself in a position to offer it to you.”

Just what is he trying to accomplish? “You want to make a deal? With me? I’m an angel, you ass. I don’t have a soul to sell.”

To his surprise, Crowley laughs. “Then it’s a good thing that’s not what I’m asking for, isn’t it? Come on. Five minute chat, no strings attached. I’ll make it worth your while, I promise.”

And the demon stands there, confident and self-assured, as if Castiel is not completely capable of snuffing him out of existence. Does he not realize the danger, or is he just certain that Castiel will stay his hand? It cannot be the former; the demon has proven to possess some truly impressive self-preservation instincts. But if it is the latter, it is all the more irritating to discover that he is right. Because Castiel is desperate. At this point, what could be the harm in a five minute long talk, no matter how unsavory the conversation partner is?

Whatever the demon is offering, surely he can find a way to turn it to his advantage.

He casts one last look at Dean, soundly asleep in a bed that creaks ominously with every motion. Then, he turns to face Crowley head-on. “Five minutes,” he growls. “This had better not be a waste of my time.”

“Oh, it won’t be,” the demon replies. “May I?” He reaches out, and Castiel suppresses the urge to bat the hand away and throw the demon across the room. He manages it, and Crowley takes his arm, and then the two of them are somewhere else.

Hell, he presumes. Though he doesn’t remember it looking quite like this.

Crowley notices his confusion. “Do you like it?” he asks. “Did it myself. Hades, new and improved.”

He frowns, glancing around. The walls and floor are an irritating shade of off-white, and the lighting from the fluorescents in the ceiling is steady, even. Next to him, a long line of damned souls stands, shuffling forward every now and then. They go on as far as he can see, twisting around the corner of the hallway and out of sight. Overhead, soft music croons.

“ _This_ is Hell?” he questions. Last time he was here, when he came to retrieve Sam, he remembers a lot more blood and screaming.

“Genius, isn’t it?” Crowley replies. “It was _so_ messy before. This is much easier, and plus, it’s far more effective. If there’s something no human can stand, it’s waiting in line for hours. When faced with eternity, they’re practically begging us to let them become demons.”

“And the music?”

“Ah, that. Nothing like a little Beethoven’s Fifth to put the mind on edge.”

Castiel squints at the nearest speaker. He doesn’t recall Beethoven’s Fifth utilizing electric guitar. “That… is not Beethoven,” he says.

Crowley raises an eyebrow. “Isn’t it?” he asks, and smirks. “Shall we talk business?”

He shakes himself, annoyed that he’s let the demon distract him. “You have four minutes remaining.”

“Right then,” Crowley says. “You need something to help with your archangel problem. I’m looking to expand my borders. I think we can help each other.”

“What are you--”

“Tell me, Castiel,” Crowley says, grinning wolfishly, “have you ever considered the power of human souls?”

His immediate reaction is to demand what human souls have to do with anything. But he’s not stupid; he can see what the demon is suggesting. Human souls contain incredible power, enough, perhaps, to stand up to Raphael, if he were to gather enough. However, that says nothing of the logistical problems involved in collecting them, nor of the risks inherent in trying to absorb enough to affect anything.

“That’s not a viable solution,” he says. “Where would I possibly find enough to make a difference in time? Harvesting them from Heaven would take too long.”

“You’re not wrong.” The demon holds up a finger. “Luckily for you, I happen to know where there’s a concentration of souls ripe for your taking. And some prime real estate ripe for mine.”

Understanding dawns. Castiel doesn’t like it. “You speak of Purgatory,” he accuses.

“Bingo!” Crowley says. “Give the boy a medal. With the two of us working together, I’ll bet we could open it up easily. And then, boom, problems solved, everyone lives happily ever after, we never have to see each other again. What do you say?”

The worst thing about the offer is that it’s tempting. Objectively speaking, Purgatory would be an incredibly expedient way to find souls, and those souls would likely give him a fighting chance against Raphael, if not better. And working in tandem, he and Crowley would likely be able to figure out how to open the doors. If he could stand working with the demon at all.

Tempting. Very tempting. And honestly, better that any idea he’s been able to come up with on his own.

And yet-- his thoughts turn to Dean, as they are so often prone to doing. As of today, Dean has put himself back on the playing field, so to speak. Purgatory is the realm of monsters, and should something go wrong, should the creatures contained there be released onto an unsuspecting populace, Dean would be directly in harm’s way. He would not allow it to be any other way, would set himself up as the first line of defense and set his jaw and refuse to move.

Unacceptable. Dean has been through too much already; he will not risk putting him in further danger. Perhaps, were Dean still safely ensconced away from the hunting world, he would lend the idea more consideration, but as things stand, that is not possible.

And he has to consider the source of the offer.

“No,” he says, and the demon blinks. “It’s too risky. Is that the best you can come up with?”

Crowley stares.

“Are we done?” Castiel asks, and does not wait for an answer before turning to leave. The damned souls shift and mutter and watch him with wary, defeated eyes as he passes, and he does his utmost to ignore them. This place is beginning to grate on his nerves; Dean would say it was giving him the ‘creeps’.

Though, he is almost disappointed. A part of him was hoping that Crowley would actually have a solution for him.

“Castiel,” Crowley calls, before he can even make it all the way down the hallway. Against his better judgement, he turns. The demon is still standing where he left him, his hands jammed in his pocket, an unreadable expression on his face. “A second offer, if you’ll allow me.”

He shakes his head. “There is nothing more that you can say to me that I would be interested in.”

“I’ll loan you some souls,” Crowley says, and that is enough to draw him up short, because of all the things he’d been expecting, that was not one of them. He must be making an interesting expression, because Crowley rolls his eyes. “Don’t look at me like that. It wouldn’t be many. Two hundred thousand, tops. Politics down here are too unstable for anything more than that.”

He desperately searches for the trap, any trap in his words and comes up empty. Two hundred thousand souls is, in the grand scheme of things, not a lot, especially when those souls are weak, blackened and damned, but for the demon to offer any at all is both shocking and suspicious, as is the implication that he would give more if he were able.

“Oh?” he demands. “And what would my side of this arrangement be?” There must be a price, and likely not one that he will be inclined to pay.

Crowley scoffs. “Let’s make something very clear, Cassie. This isn’t an Arrangement. This is a one-time deal, no take-backs, nothing more and nothing less, and I fully expect you to return the souls when you’re done with them.” The bitterness in his voice is surprising, and Castiel wonders at its origin. “And as for what I want, well. Kick Raphael’s smug, self-righteous arse into next century and I’ll be satisfied enough.”

He works through that statement and frowns. That… can’t be all.

“You want me to kill Raphael,” he says, “something I was going to attempt anyway?”

“Is it really so hard to believe that I want Raphael’s head on a pike?” the demon returns.

He narrows his eyes. “I have no doubt that you would choose his side in an instant if you decided it suited you.”

“Well, yes, see, the thing about that is that it _doesn’t suit me at all_ .” And suddenly, the demon is standing right in front of him, eyes blazing with fierce anger. “ _Moron_ , do you even remember how much effort I put into stopping the Apocalypse _last_ time? And now that two-bit archangel wants to do it all over again? I don’t bloody think so!” He is shouting by the end of his diatribe, shadows gathering around him like a shield. The souls all go completely silent, but Castiel stands his ground. After all he has been through, the King of Hell is not enough to faze him.

“Your motive is altruism?” he asks, disbelieving.

The demon snorts. “Hardly. Raphael manages to open up the Cage, I’ve got three archangels gunning for me for my part in all this. I’ve survived two Apocalypses already. I’ve no desire to die in a third.”

Indeed, he sounds offended by the very prospect. Self-preservation is, at least, a motivation that Castiel would expect from Crowley, and there is an interesting tidbit of information hidden in there. To Castiel’s knowledge, there has only been one Apocalypse attempted in recent history, so it is somewhat intriguing that the demon claims to have lived through two. Something for later, though.

“Two hundred thousand?” he clarifies.

Crowley nods. “Two hundred thousand,” he agrees. “Beat him, Castiel.”

If there is a trap here, it is too well-hidden for him to find. “I have a condition of my own, then,” he says. “Bobby Singer’s soul. Return it.”

“What makes you think I haven’t?” the demon asks, but caves under Castiel’s glare. “I don’t know, I find I rather like having collateral to hold over you lot.”

“Return it, or we have no bargain.”

Crowley sighs, but raises a hand to snap. The sound echoes loudly, and many of the souls cast fearful looks in their direction. “Fine. It’s done. Now,” he says, eyes gleaming, “do we have a deal?”

Nothing left to do then. Castiel ignores the part of him that is screaming that this is a horrible idea, which sounds a bit too much like Dean for his liking. “I’m not kissing you,” he says, and Crowley smiles, slow and shark-like.

“You’re not really my type,” he says, “though I’m sure you could use the practice. Pleasure doing business with you, Castiel. I’ll have the souls ready for you shortly.”

Castiel does not bother to reply before leaving, winging his way out of Hell with speed to rival a comet. Trepidation floods him-- there is not telling if this deal will be worth it-- but strangely enough, he feels no guilt over what he has just done. Two hundred thousand damned souls will not be enough to kill Raphael, leaving his problems far from solved, but now, his task does not seem nearly so insurmountable.

He thinks of Dean again, asleep, unaware of what has just occurred. Safe.

For now.

He is determined to keep it that way.

Castiel flies back to Heaven. His lieutenants greet him, and the battle awaits him.

The war continues. The world spins on. The sun rises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love writing Crowley so much, you have no idea. He's my favorite.
> 
> Thanks so much for all the love you've been giving me! I've been trying to reply to comments, but like... I'm shy and awkward about... talking to people, so if you don't want me to reply then just let me know. But! Thank you! I love you all!
> 
> Next Chapter: Aziraphale decides to call in the cavalry. How good of an idea this is is debatable.


	5. In Which Death Kindly Stops

They don’t stop until about eight o’clock in the morning, when Sam pulls in to a diner in a sleepy mountainside town.

By this time, Aziraphale is thoroughly alarmed.

His hypothesis is correct, of that he is sure. Sam Winchester currently lacks his soul, and even just the circumstances surrounding everything are a lot to take in. The fact that everyone tried for another Apocalypse after the mess that was the first one is a little bit insulting, to be honest, and to hear that this man-- this boy, really, he’s not even thirty yet-- managed to overpower the Devil himself and save the world practically single-handedly is positively astounding.

So here’s the thing: Sam Winchester deserves better than to be left rotting in Hell.

Even had he not saved all of humanity, Aziraphale would have strong objections to the idea. Most beings suddenly deprived of a soul take the lack as an invitation to shed all ethics and create whatever mayhem they desire simply because they can no longer feel the guilt that would normally accompany such actions. And yet, here is Sam, functioning as if nothing is amiss. If Aziraphale could not see the void in him where his soul is meant to be, he might not have noticed anything was wrong; to be sure, Sam’s eyes are a little too cold, his smiles a little too by rote, but he still seems to be holding onto his morals at least somewhat. If he can do that without his soul, how good of a person must he be with it?

Aziraphale wants to see that. And moreover, he is certain that his Father placed him in Sam Winchester’s path for a reason.

So, by the time Sam pulls into the diner, Aziraphale has come up with a plan.

They get a booth near the back, from which Sam can see the whole establishment, including the exits. A smiling waitress comes over to take their orders; Sam gets a biscuit with gravy and a black coffee. Upon learning that they don’t stock tea, Aziraphale orders a coffee as well, one sugar, two creams. And then they are left alone. Sam’s gaze makes him feel a bit like a bug pinned to a card, and he tries not to squirm. He is millennia old, he should be above such a reaction, but the man is… unnerving.

“So,” Sam says, “what’s your story? You mentioned an Apocalypse in 1990?”

Aziraphale grimaces. “Yes, that whole affair was…” He trails off, searching for the right word and failing. “Well. See, the Antichrist was supposed to end everything, but a bit of a… mixup, shall we say, in where he was placed as an infant led to him being raised completely human, unbeknownst to everyone. So, he decided that he liked the Earth just as it was.”

Sam nods, digesting the information. “Alright,” he says. “How did you play into that?”

He can feel the blush rising on his cheeks. “Well, er. You see, I was supposed to be Heaven’s agent on Earth, so, well. I’d been down here since the very Beginning, so my counterpart and I decided that we would do our utmost to prevent anything from changing that. We… didn’t end up actually accomplishing all that much, but we tried. Though, it did make Heaven awfully angry with me.” He says the last bit in an undertone as he remembers. The determination on their faces, the pain of the blow as it struck home.

He takes in a steadying breath and tries not to dwell. Not now, anyway.

Sam’s gaze sharpens. “Counterpart?” he asks. “You mean a demon?” His hand twitches, and Aziraphale can tell that he wants to go for the angel blade in his jacket that he thinks he doesn’t know about. A fair reaction, really, for anyone who doesn’t know the demon as he does.

“Yes,” he says, “but no need to look so concerned. His job was to tempt humans into sin, which… he admittedly was very good at, but his ideas for going about it consisted of gluing coins to the sidewalk and tying up traffic. Hardly the stuff nightmares are made of.”

Sam doesn’t seem convinced, but he accepts the explanation. “Okay, so then what, Heaven killed you for interfering?”

He winces. “Yes, that’s about the size of it. Treason was their main allegation. ” He carefully does not bring up the other charge brought against him. Somehow, he doesn’t think that would reassure Sam at all.

“And now God’s brought you back,” Sam states, leaning forward. “Why?”

He couldn’t have asked for a better segue. “I wanted to discuss that, actually. I believe it likely has something to do with you?”

“With me?”

“Well, yes.” He nods emphatically. “After all, I died in my bookshop in London. If He only wanted to resurrect me, it would have been simple to put me back right where I left off. But instead, He waited seventeen years and placed me halfway around the world, where you came along driving by scarcely an hour or two later. I don’t believe in coincidences like that.”

Sam inclines his head. “Neither do I,” he admits. “I agree. I thought there had to be a reason why we met.”

“I think it must have something to do with your soul, Sam,” Aziraphale says, and watches the man’s expression shutter. “Now, now, hear me out. Surely, you can’t possibly think it’s right to leave an intrinsic part of yourself in Hell?”

“I told you, I’m doing fine without it,” Sam says. “I’m a great hunter right now, and if that’s what’s causing the lack of sleep, then it might even be an advantage. Besides, it’s in the Cage. Not like we’ve got easy access to it.”

To hear him so easily dismiss the most important part of who he is stings. But Aziraphale remains focused. “What if I told you that I have an idea of how to get around that?” he asks.

Sam considers it. Aziraphale can practically see the wheels turning in his head. And for a moment, he dares to hope. But then, Sam shakes his head.

“Look, I get that you’re trying to help, but I’m fine,” he says. “It’s been down there a while now, so it’s probably better to just leave it.”

Aziraphale shakes his head sadly. “Then I suppose you leave me with no choice,” he says. “I truly am sorry, Sam. I really hate doing things like this.”

“What are you--”

Sam’s hand goes to the inside of his jacket, but Aziraphale is quicker. Reaching across the table, he presses two fingers to Sam’s forehead, bringing all his force of will to bear. Sam struggles for an impressive amount of time, for a mortal, but he succumbs after a few seconds, slumping into unconsciousness. Aziraphale stares at him in remorse.

“I do hope you’ll forgive me this later,” he tells him, “but honestly, what else was I supposed to do? Let you leave your own soul in Hell? Do you have any idea who I am?”

He feels a bit guilty, yes, but also a great deal more angelic than he has in a while. Here is a clear goal for him to accomplish, a wrong that needs righting, a task that, once finished, can only possibly do good. If this is what his Father brought him back to do, he will do it gladly.

With that in mind, he takes Sam’s arm and spreads his wings.

The waitress arrives with their food a minute later. She stares at the vacant booth for a moment before deciding that she categorically does not want to know.

 

* * *

 

 

Flying is… nice. He’d almost forgotten what it was like, this ultimate freedom, having the sky stretched out before him and the world at his feet. His wings ache, but it is a pleasant ache, like working an unused muscle for the first time in an age. He has to remind himself that he has a passenger, that with any luck there will be time for a flight for the joy of it sometime later, and it is with some reluctance that he lands at his destination.

Or at least, what he hopes to be his destination. This will be very awkward if it isn’t. He let instinct guide him here, but his instincts have been wrong before.

He stands on the doorstep of a quaint suburban house on a quaint suburban street. The sun shines through grey clouds overhead, casting everything in a pale light. Nothing about this house seems any different from the other houses on the street, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. He adjusts Sam, slumped unconscious against him, before raising a fist to knock.

The door opens before he can.

A man stands there, with golden hair and blue eyes, wearing a t-shirt and blue jeans. His posture is a natural, comfortable slouch, though it does almost nothing to take away from his height. His face is open and pleasant, young and yet exuding a powerful, unfathomable wisdom. When he sees Aziraphale, he lights up, his eyes crinkling around the edges.

Though he knew what to expect, it is shocking to see him as an adult. Still, Aziraphale would know him anywhere.

“Mister Aziraphale!” he says. “I heard you were back!”

“Adam,” Aziraphale says, and feels an inexorable wave of relief.

Adam Young grins and opens his door wider, stepping aside to allow entry to the angel and his cargo. “Here, you can put him down to the couch,” he says. “Would you like some tea? We’ve biscuits too, if you want. I thought you might be coming by.”

“Oh, yes please,” Aziraphale says. He lays Sam on the couch as gently as he can, rather glad to be free of the man’s weight, before turning to his host. “We’ve?” he questions. Probably not the most important question here, but he has long since learned that sometimes it is best not to inquire as to just how Adam knows what he knows.

Adam nods. “Pepper’s at work,” he says, “but she’ll be sad she missed you. We got married for a bit,” he adds in response to Aziraphale’s unspoken question. “Seemed like the thing to do. But then we figured out I wasn’t much into it and Pepper likes girls, so now we just live together.”

“Ah, I see.” He pauses. “You’re doing well then?”

“Great,” Adam replies. “You’re looking pretty good yourself. ‘M glad you’re not dead anymore.” Before Aziraphale can come up with a good response to that, Adam’s gaze flits past him, landing on the unconscious man on the couch. His eyes glaze over, going distant and empty, seeing what Aziraphale sees and possibly something that Aziraphale does not. “He’s not really doing so good at all, is he?” he says. “I s’ppose that’s why you’re here then.”

Aziraphale shudders. A pall has fallen over the room, and he is reminded that while Adam may have grown up, he has certainly not grown out of what he is. For the first time, he questions his wisdom in coming here, but he only allows the lapse for a second before pushing the thought aside. If there’s someone who can do something about the situation, it’s Adam. He collects himself.

“Yes, it is,” he says. “I was rather hoping that you might know what to do about it.”

Adam regards him solemnly. “I could probably fix it myself, if that’s what you’re asking,” he says, slowly, “but that would mean tapping into things I don’t really like to tap into. I’m not sure anybody would like the results of that.”

“Ah, yes, of course,” Aziraphale says. “My apologies.” He tries to keep the dismay off his face, though he suspects he fails rather miserably. If Adam can’t do anything about this, then who can? He could always try storming the Cage himself, he supposes. He’s broken into Hell before. But there is a world of difference between breaching Hell in general and stealing something from the container built to hold one of the most powerful beings in existence.

Clearly, though, it can be done. Someone brought Sam’s body out, after all.

He could try it. If he had to.

“Well, just because I shouldn’t do anythin’ doesn’t mean someone else can’t,” Adam says, bringing him out of his thoughts. “I asked someone else to come too, if you don’t mind my presumin’, since I was pretty sure you were coming yourself. He should be here any minute.”

His eyes widen. “He?” Hope rises in him, wild and unconstrained, because he can only think of one ‘he’ who would be at all relevant to him.

And at that moment, the temperature in the room plunges about twenty degrees. The lights flicker for a moment before stabilizing, and outside the sun seems to grow dimmer. Aziraphale breathes out, watching his breath fog up the space in front of him. The hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

The hope drops out from under him, along with his stomach.

“You’re very dramatic. You know that?” Adam says.

HABIT, says Death.

Aziraphale slowly turns. It is indeed one of the four Horsepersons of the Apocalypse that looms by the door, though he looks a bit different than the last time the angel saw him. For one thing, he has acquired an actual face, that of a pale, gaunt gentleman. His skin stretches suspiciously thin over his skull, but not in such a way that a mortal would notice anything but a sinking feeling of doom upon looking at him. He wears a black suit rather than his old black coat, and his scythe is conspicuously absent, but his presence fills the room in a way that makes it impossible to forget just who he is.

ADAM YOUNG, he says. AZIRAPHALE. A PLEASURE AS ALWAYS.

“Um,” says Aziraphale, though it comes out as more of a strangled gulp.

“Hullo,” says Adam. “We were sort of hoping you could help us out with something.”

WERE YOU NOW, Death says. He glides further into the room-- no easy feat in a three piece suit, which is hardly an outfit conducive to _gliding_ \-- and Aziraphale takes about three steps back. Measured steps, not at all hurried or panicky, but Death seems to notice anyway, sending him a look that on any other being would pass for amused. PEACE, PRINCIPALITY. I AM NOT HERE FOR YOU. NOT THIS TIME, AT ANY RATE, he says, and directs his attention to Sam. SAM WINCHESTER, he muses. WHY IS IT THAT WHEN THERE’S TROUBLE, IT’S ALWAYS ONE OF THOSE TWO?

“Yes, well,” Aziraphale clears his throat, which has somehow become very dry. “His soul. Happens to be. Not with him. You can… probably see that. I, er. I suppose we were hoping that you could, er. Do something about it?” He exchanges glances with Adam, who nods encouragingly.

Death regards him. HIS SOUL IS TRAPPED IN THE DEPTHS OF HELL IN THE SAME CAGE THAT HOLDS BOTH MICHAEL AND LUCIFER AS THEY TRY TO TEAR EACH OTHER APART.

He wilts. “So, is that a no?”

IT IS NOT, says Death. RETRIEVING IT WILL BE SIMPLE ENOUGH. I’M ON GOOD TERMS WITH THE CURRENT KING. A significant look at that, though Aziraphale can’t fathom why. WITH THE SITUATION IN HEAVEN BEING AS IT IS, HAVING BOTH WINCHESTERS AT THE TOP OF THEIR GAMES WILL LIKELY BE HELPFUL.

Adam nods, as if any of that made any sense at all, but Aziraphale can feel himself growing increasingly confused. “Wait,” he says, “what situation in Heaven?”

I’M SURE YOU’LL FIND OUT SOON ENOUGH, is Death’s incredibly helpful answer. IF I DO THIS, YOU MUST PROMISE THAT YOU WILL ENSURE SAM’S REUNION WITH HIS BROTHER. THE WORLD MAY VERY WELL DEPEND ON IT.

“Of course,” Aziraphale says, “though, er. If you don’t mind my saying so, the last time we met, you seemed very keen on the world ending. What’s changed?”

NOTHING AT ALL. I JUST HAPPEN TO LIKE THE CURRENT STATUS QUO. BETWEEN LUCIFER AND THE CURRENT KING OF HELL, I MUCH PREFER THE LATTER. SO WOULD YOU, FOR THAT MATTER.

Another significant look. Aziraphale blinks.

What?

Death inclines his head. I WILL RETURN SHORTLY, he says. One last glance at Sam. DON’T GO ANYWHERE, he adds, and again, if this were literally any other being, Aziraphale would take that for a joke.

“Sure thing,” Adam says cheerfully. “Thanks for the help!”

Death’s lips twitch. And then, he vanishes. The room lightens, warms, and Aziraphale lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He suddenly feels very much like he wants to sit down.

“Well, that was easy,” Adam remarks. “Usually, when I want him to do something I have to go at him for weeks before he’ll actually do it.”

Putting aside the fact that apparently, calling on Death is something Adam does often, yes, Aziraphale thinks, that was easy. Too easy, in fact. Favors of this magnitude should come with a hefty price tag. Getting Sam back to his brother is a small task, all things considered; Death would have been well within his rights to ask for far more. The fact that he didn’t is somewhat concerning. Also, seriously, _what situation in Heaven_? And what does the King of Hell have to do with anything?

Well, he hasn’t the slightest, but he knows someone who will.

Honestly, this should have been the very first thing he did.

“Er, do you think I’ve got enough time to pop into Soho for a bit? Check up on… things?”

‘Things’ was definitely not the word he was going to use there, but Adam understands him anyway if his raised eyebrow is any indication. He opens his mouth, then seems to think better of it, frowning.

“Probably,” he says. “In fact, you probably should. But, Aziraphale, I think you’re not going to like what you find.” His face has gone still and grave, and Aziraphale feels a chill run down his spine. That could mean a multitude of things, none of them good.

He’s going anyway, of course.

“Right then,” he says. “Are you alright looking after Sam? I won’t be long.”

“Yeah, that’s fine.” Adam is watching him with that same strange gaze, sympathy curling about his eyes while his lips are set in a hard warning. He swallows, nods a few times-- more for his own benefit than anything-- and spreads his wings once more.

He lands in front of his bookshop. The sounds of the city wash over him, a comforting wave of chatter and horns and engines that he hadn’t realized he was missing. There are a few people walking the sidewalk nearby, but none of them take notice of his sudden appearance. Or if they do, they decide they’re better off not knowing. None of them are in the street, he is amused to note; even years and years later, the Bentley’s reign of terror has left its mark.

For the first time since he woke up, he feels completely at ease.

“Home sweet home,” he murmurs, and he steps forward to open the door.

And stops, good feelings vanishing into thin air. Because for a moment, the doorknob doesn’t turn, and that’s when he senses the wards. Thick and heavy, innumerable layers of them, every type of protection spell known to man and quite a few that no mortal would have any hope of performing. Even an archangel would have trouble getting in, and that’s how he knows for certain that he didn’t put these up himself and forget about their strength. He’s never tried to keep out an archangel before; Gabriel popped in every year or so, and while he could be incredibly irritating, he was always more lonely than an actual nuisance. He certainly never tried to drive him away.

No, these wards are a recent addition. It’s not that the humans aren’t noticing him, he realizes. It’s that they very likely can’t see him or the shop at all. And just as he begins to fear that he is going to be locked out of his own bookshop, the lock clicks, and the door swings inward. The bell chimes, but he can find no comfort in it; its sound, once full and cheerful, seems thin and tinny to his ears. He walks inside and is greeted with a face-full of dust.

He sneezes.

The dust is everywhere, floating on the air and coating every surface. He kicks up clouds of it with every step. It covers the books so thoroughly that he can’t see a single title. They’re still here, at least, but that is little comfort when faced with the realization that no one has been here in years.

And then he sees them.

He almost doesn’t, but the dim light that filters through the windows hits the bookshelves at just the right angle. The wings, or the imprints of them, at any rate, spread across the books, a horrendous memorial to the life he once lost at that very spot. The body is gone, at least, but he rather suspects that’s because he’s wearing it.

He feels like he’s going to be sick.

He staggers back outside, unable to breathe until the fresh air hits him. He braces himself against his knees, only about two steps away from hyperventilating. He’s shaking, his own death playing on loop in his mind, a loop of fighting and fear and that all-encompassing pain that ended it all.

 _I think you’re not going to like what you find,_ Adam says, and the words take on a far more ominous meaning. Only one place left to visit, and suddenly, he can’t be there fast enough.

Or, as it turns out, be there at all.

He hits the wards mid-flight, and he is forced to come to a landing in the complex’s parking lot. The wards here are of equal strength to those on the shop, but unlike those, these wards do not recognize him at all. He cannot gain entry, no matter how hard he strains. He blinks at the building in disbelief, squinting up at approximately the location of the flat he’s trying to gain access to.

Looking around the parking lot, he notices it: the Bentley isn’t here.

Aziraphale isn’t sure how he makes it back to Adam’s house, only that he collapses into a chair and Adam is there, pushing a hot cup of tea into his hands. He takes it numbly, though his fingers are trembling so hard that he nearly drops it.

“‘M sorry,” Adam says. “I should’ve told you more before you left.”

He shakes his head. “He’s gone,” he gasps out. “He’s just… not there, and, the shop’s...” He meets Adam’s eyes, blue and full of compassion. “Do you--”

“I haven’t heard from him since that day,” Adam says. “He was more angry that I’d ever seen him before. I thought he was going to do somethin’ stupid, but I couldn’t get him to tell me about it.” He grimaces. “He said he was just there to tell me I wasn’t going to be seeing him again. Common courtesy, he called it.”

Something in Aziraphale’s chest aches.

“He could be dead,” he hears himself say. What he’ll do if that’s true, he doesn’t know. What the point of living in a world without the demon in it would be, he _doesn’t know._ Before now, he’d never had to consider such a thing.

“Maybe,” Adam admits, “but I wouldn’t count him out. He’s pretty good at surviving, that one.”

He’s not wrong. So, Aziraphale decides, that’s what he’s going to hold on to. Crowley is alive. He has to believe that. And when he sees him again, he’ll kill him himself for worrying him so.

Decision made, he settles in, sips his tea, and waits for Death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Death definitely ships it. Poor Aziraphale, no one's telling him anything. Kudos to anyone who gets the chapter title reference! I'm not actually super happy with this chapter, but the plot must inch onward... slowly... at a snail's pace...
> 
> Thanks so much for reading, I love y'all so much.
> 
> Next Chapter: Dean's kinda pissed about how everyone's been lying to him. Crowley's kinda annoyed. Just, in general. They both have conversations, though not with each other, because that would probably end in someone's death and there's a lot more chapters to go so I can't do that yet.


	6. In Which Two Idiots Talk

Dean drives.

He doesn’t know where he’s going, and he doesn’t particularly care. Doesn’t think it matters much. His grip on the steering wheel is white-knuckled, his eyes narrow and facing straight ahead. He’s been glaring at nothing for the past several hours, and his head is starting to ache from the strain, but he doesn’t bother trying to stop. It won’t make a difference. His blood is boiling and singing all at the same time, and he wants to take up a gun and shoot something ‘til it’s dead, and he wants to drive and drive until he can’t think anymore, until he no longer feels like he wants to jump out of his own skin.

Sam is alive.

Sam is alive, and Bobby knew, and neither of them fucking told him.

He should be happy. Should be overjoyed. And he is. He definitely is. His brother is alive, is not rotting in the Cage with the archangels, got out of there in a matter of weeks, and Dean is ecstatic. Sam’s okay, and it’s a relief even if it doesn’t erase the misery of the past couple of months.

But they didn’t _tell_ him.

It didn’t even take that long to figure out, because once he got there, it was obvious Bobby was hiding something from him. Sure, the old man was glad to see him, and the feeling was mutual; they shared a couple of beers and caught up, and it was nice. He hadn’t realized how much he missed the guy. But every time he so much as mentioned Sam-- not often, admittedly, the pain still too near even now-- Bobby would look away. At first, he dismissed it as grief, because God knew Bobby had just as much right to mourn Sam as he did. But as time passed and it kept happening, it started to look less and less like grief and more and more like something else.

Like guilt.

So, Dean pressed. And Bobby caved. The whole thing was almost insulting.

Sam is alive. And nobody told him.

Bobby had plenty of explanations lined up. Plenty of justifications. “You were safe,” he argued. “You got out of the life. You know how many hunters get that chance? And if we’d’ve told you Sam was back, you would’ve dropped everything you’d built for yourself and come runnin’. Sam didn't want that. He wanted you to live a good life.”

Yeah. Fuck that.

How could they possibly misjudge him so badly? Yes, he loved Lisa and Ben. A lot, and it’s going to take time for that wound to stop stinging. But it’s a self-inflicted wound, and the thing is, he could never be happy there. Not completely. That was why he decided to leave in the first place. Without his brother there, it could never be home. Home was the rumble of the Impala’s engine, the stars overhead, and Sam asleep in the passenger seat.

So, yes. If he knew that Sam was alive, he would have come running. Because it would have been his choice. Would have been what he wanted to do. And they had no right to take that from him.

So Dean drives. Because he’s fucking pissed off.

He doesn’t know how long he does. He’s glad the highway is empty; he’s going well above the speed limit, and he has no particular inclination toward changing that. His phone rings, and he scowls, ignoring it. There is absolutely nothing Bobby can say right now that would cool him off. He’d just end up yelling, and then Bobby would yell back, and honestly, he doesn’t want to argue right now. He just wants to drive. And yes, he’s just self-aware enough to know he’s not handling this particularly well, but as far as coping mechanisms go, this is far from his worst.

The phone stops ringing. He casts a glance at the empty passenger seat. The seat where Sam could be right now, if everyone in his life wasn’t a fucking liar.

Actually, screw that, yes he does want to argue.

“Cas,” he says through gritted teeth, “I don’t know if you can hear me, you son of a bitch, but if you can, get your ass down here. We need to talk.” Because honestly, who else could be responsible for Sam’s resurrection? Bobby claimed that they have no idea, that Cas hasn’t been answering their prayers, but Dean knows better. Who else do they know that would have both the power and the desire to even try?

...He’s just trying to get information, with this. Information and a good argument, to blow off some steam. He’s not bitter that Cas hasn’t been answering him either. He’s definitely not bitter that Cas hasn’t visited him once since the Apocalypse, that he left him with nothing but a really shitty goodbye and not so much as a backwards glance. He’s not bitter. At all. Not one bit. And he’s not concerned either, no matter what he might have thought last night. Nope. Not worried. Because obviously, he’s well enough to be resurrecting people, so the problem must lie somewhere else.

And frankly, he’s not really expecting the guy to show.

“Hello, Dean,” Cas says from the backseat, and Dean nearly drives off the road, his heart rate doubling and tripling in the span of a second.

“Jesus, Cas!” he says, once he is sure that he is no longer in danger of losing control of the car. He attempts a few calming breaths, but it doesn’t really help. He stares at him in the rearview mirror; he looks the same as ever, the same mussed-up hair, the same coat, the same intense blue eyes. “You can’t just _do_ that!” He tries not to sound too happy to see him. He’s not sure how well that works.

“My apologies,” Cas says, in the least apologetic tone of voice Dean has ever heard. “You said you wanted to talk.”

Any relief that Dean might have felt at Cas’ appearance-- _he’s here, he’s alright, he’s alive, he’s here_ \-- flees, replaced by bubbling anger. “Yeah, I wanted to _talk_. What the literal fuck, Cas, where have you been?”

Cas arches an eyebrow. “In Heaven. There has been… much to do. I am sorry for not responding to you last night. I was caught up in an issue that could not wait.” He really does sound sorry this time, and Dean feels some of his irritation abating. He exhales heavily.

“It’s fine. Whatever. But Bobby said you haven’t been responding to him or Sam either, and actually, speaking of Sam--” Oh, right, _this_ is why he’s angry-- “are you the one who brought him back?”

Cas is silent for a moment. “Yes,” he says.

“Great. Thanks. Why the _hell_ didn’t you tell me?” He wishes his voice sounded less raw, less hurt, wishes he didn’t have reason to sound this way at all. Wishes the people he trusts had trusted him to make his own decisions about his own life.

Cas is silent again, and the air in the car feels thick as molasses. “I thought, at the time, that it was the right thing to do,” he says, slowly. “When I resurrected Sam, he took one look at you and Lisa together and walked in the opposite direction. I thought that surely, if your brother did not want to interfere with your life, then I had no right to do so. You deserved a safe life, a happy life. I thought you had that.”

Dean considers this, turning it over and over in his mind. Then, he jerks on the steering wheel. The car swerves sharply to the right, running off the road, and Cas makes a noise of surprise. The Impala comes screeching to a halt, and he snatches his keys out of the ignition. “Out,” he growls.

“Dean-”

“Out,” he repeats himself, opening the door and standing up himself. Cas is quick to follow, and when he does, Dean rounds on him in an instant.

“Did it seriously not occur to you that what I deserve is to choose my own damn life?” he all but shouts. “Cas, c’mon. What was all that free will crap about, then?” Cas looks away, his expression blank except for a faint tightening around his eyes, and Dean wants to take him by the coat lapels and shake him until he understands. If he can still understand; Dean realizes that getting his mojo back might have put him back at square one when it comes to that sort of thing. Is that why he stayed away?

Probably not. Cas was still a fully-fledged member of the bird brigade the first time he chose them, after all. But still. The suspicion, once thought of, is hard to get rid of.

But Cas sighs, and his expression cracks. His posture slumps, and he looks tired, tired in a way that sets Dean’s alarm bells clanging. “I apologize,” he says. “You’re right, I should not have kept my actions from you. You had a right to know. I thought you deserved to be happy, but if you were not so, then I erred. Badly. I’m sorry, Dean.” He meets his eyes. “Though, to be fair, you are not always good at judging what you deserve.”

He thinks back to another time, to a darkened warehouse, to lights bursting and shadows of wings and an incredulous, _You don’t think you deserve to be saved?_

He doesn’t want to forgive. He wants to stay angry, at Bobby, at Sam, at Cas. But the relief is edging back in again, the relief that despite everything, this is still the Cas he knows, the relief that despite everything, Sam is back, is alive and presumably well. And Cas stands there in front of him, fidgeting with his trenchcoat-- that same goddamn trenchcoat-- and looking as guilty as if he’d just kicked a puppy, and he just. Can’t stay mad.

It really is good to see him again.

He shakes his head. “Alright, alright. Just, don’t pull that shit again, alright?” And despite himself, he can feel the grin breaking out across his face. He steps forward and pulls Cas into a hug. “It’s good to see you again, man.” Somehow, he feels like that’s an understatement, but he tries not to overanalyze.

For a moment, Cas is stiff and awkward in his embrace. Then, his arms come up to rest on his back, though slowly, loosely, as if he’s scared he’s doing the wrong thing. “And you as well, Dean,” he says, and Dean doesn’t think he’s mistaking the warmth in his voice.

He pulls back after a few seconds, before the hug can venture into uncomfortable territory, and Cas lets him go without resisting. “Anything else we need to talk about?” he can’t help but ask. He’s mostly teasing, and he expects Cas to dismiss him easily. What he does not expect is for Cas to wince. Only a little bit, but it’s there, a tic that before the Apocalypse would not have been there at all. “Cas?” he says, more sharply, and Cas averts his gaze.

“There is nothing you need to concern yourself with,” Cas tries, but no, Dean is not having that. He stares at the angel, really studies him for the first time in months, and he doesn’t know how he missed it before. There is weariness in his eyes and in his stance, and his hands fidget with his trenchcoat. He doesn’t remember him ever doing that. Maybe he’s too tired to stop himself. Either that, or he has something to hide. Possibly both.

“Bullshit,” he says. “What aren’t you telling me?” He reaches out, and Cas takes a step back. Away from him, and that’s so fundamentally wrong that his heart skips a beat. Cas should never have to back away from him.

Something is wrong.

“The… situation in Heaven is not… optimal,” Cas says. “Forgive me, time works differently on that plane, so it has been longer for me than it has been for you. My… people skills are rusty.” He puts ‘people skills’ and ‘rusty’ in air quotes, which is kind of funny, but Dean doesn’t feel so much like smiling anymore.

“Not optimal like how?” he demands. “Like there’s fighting?” he remembers what the ghost girl said. _There’s fighting where she wants to take me. I think people are getting hurt._ Why hadn’t he paid more attention? Been more insistent that she answer? _Shit._

Cas lowers his gaze. “There’s a war,” he admits, and his voice is quiet, like he’s ashamed. “A civil war. And it’s my fault, Dean, Raphael wanted to restart the Apocalypse but I couldn’t let that happen, so I openly opposed him and everyone else chose a side. Now it’s my faction against his. And they look to me to know what to do. They take my orders and then they get killed, and it’s because of me.”

Dean is barely listening. _A war._ Cas is fighting a war. A civil war, against a goddamn archangel, and from the sound of it, things aren’t going so hot. To think that he’d been angry at him for not showing up when at the time he was probably fighting for his life. “Shit, Cas,” he says, not bothering to hide his dismay. “Why didn’t you tell me about this sooner?”

Cas shakes his head. “I’m handling the situation,” he insists. “You… to drag you into a mess of my own making would be unfair to you.”

Something inside Dean snaps, because, really? Does he really not get it by now? After everything they’ve been through together, shouldn’t he know better than this? “Yeah, and so would you dying because you didn’t want to ask,” he says, and at this point, he’s almost too burned out to feel angry. Almost. “We’re family, Cas. You ask family for help when you need it because that’s what family does.”

Cas stares at him, wide-eyes and tense, and honestly, how could he have expected anything different? His eyes are a suspiciously bright blue, and for a moment, Dean can only stare at them. There is emotion there that he doesn’t quite want to define. “Of course,” he says, and his voice is rough. Rougher than usual, anyway. “Forgive my misjudgement.” He pauses for a moment, and an expression of guilt flashes across his face. “I was not lying when I said I was handling it.”

Dean frowns, because that can’t bode well. “What did you do?” he asks. He doesn’t mean to sound accusing, but Cas flinches, and at first looks like he doesn’t want to answer.

“I made a deal with Crowley,” he relents, and it’s like a cold bucket of water has been dumped on Dean’s spine.

“You _what_ \--”

“A foolish move, perhaps,” Cas continues, and wow, _no shit, Sherlock_ , “but one that has thus far been working for me. He offered me the use of several hundred thousand souls from Hell to use as power. Containing them all has been tiresome, but not impossible, and they have afforded me enough strength to better hold my own against my foes.”

Souls from Hell. Jesus Christ. “And what did he want in return?” he demands. _And have you lost your mind?_

“That is the oddest part about it. All he wanted was for me to ensure Raphael’s defeat.” Cas frowns. “He cited self-preservation as his reasoning, and I find myself inclined to believe him. I have been examining his words since our meeting, and I have been unable to detect any traps.”

He breathes out heavily through his nose. “This is a bad idea,” he point out. “You have to know that, right?” It smarts a bit, to know that Cas would go to a demon for help before him.

He doesn’t say that out loud.

Cas looks vaguely chagrined, but not regretful. “I am aware,” he says. “I am certainly not foolish enough to trust him. But I am confident in my ability to deal with him, should he cross me.” He pauses. “I also insisted he return Bobby’s soul as part of our bargain. It would be a good idea to verify that he did so.”

That is a piece of news hard to digest on top of literally everything else he’s been told in the past few minutes. He’ll talk to Bobby about it. It’s good to hear that Cas isn’t being so dumb as to trust the demon, but still. Making a deal with the smarmy bastard at all is a bad move, and it only speaks to how desperate Cas is. Because as much as he wishes Cas had come to him with this, he has to admit, he’s got nothing. A civil war in Heaven is something beyond even the Apocalypse; at least that mostly took place on Earth, and he has no idea what could kill Raphael except for an archangel blade, and they’re fresh out of those.

If Cas says he’s got a handle on the situation, then he’s going to have to trust that. And if he says that the borrowed souls are helping him, then he’s going to have to trust in that too, going to have to trust that Cas knows what he’s doing, even if he doesn’t trust Crowley half as far as he can throw him.

He just wishes he didn’t feel so goddamn _powerless_.

“Okay,” he says. “Okay. That’s great, first of all, thanks for thinking of that.” Though, come to think of it, Crowley promised to return Bobby’s soul after the Apocalypse was over, so they really shouldn’t have had to ask at all. Bastard. “I’ll start looking for something to kill Raphael, but Cas. Buddy. You seriously need to come to me with stuff like this, alright?”

“I will remember to do so in the future,” Cas replies, “though frankly, I hope I do not have cause to do so again.” He smiles, faintly. “It was good to speak with you again, Dean, regardless of the circumstances. I have… missed your company.” The way he says it makes it sound like a bigger admission than it really should be, and Dean really, really hopes that the burning in his cheeks isn’t visible.

“Uh, yeah, you too man,” he says. “Uh, I guess that means you need to get back.”

Cas nods, his lips pressing into a thin line. “Unfortunately, yes. I do not like to leave my forces alone for too long. It could invite unrest. I must take my leave now, I’m afraid.”

There is a sudden burst of irrational fear. “But you’ll be back, right?” he blurts out before he can stop himself, because the sun is bright and shining on the Impala’s black paint and somewhere nearby there are birds chirping and all of a sudden, this feels too much like a goodbye, and he’s not having that. He needs a promise, some sort of guarantee that he’ll be seeing Cas again.

The furrow in Cas’ brow smooths, and his eyes fill with warmth, softening around the edges. “You have my word, Dean. I will return as soon as I am able,” he says, and his arm twitches, as if he is about to reach out but thinks better of it. And then, with a nod and the sound of flapping wings, Cas is gone, and any replies Dean might have made wilt like week-old flowers. He stands there, leaning against the Impala and staring at the desolate road. If any cars pass, he doesn’t notice them.

Eventually, he gets back in the car and begins the drive back toward Bobby’s. His grip on the steering wheel is no looser, and his head no less full of turmoil, but he has a goal to work toward now, and that makes all the difference.

 

* * *

 

 

In a busy cafe in New Orleans, the King of Hell again checks his watch. The angel is late.

Not that he really expected anything different. This particular angel made his disdain for him very clear. But still. Common courtesy. Don’t be late to things when the fate of the world could very well hang in the balance.

He takes another sip of his coffee, eyeing the place. The cafe is full of humans and noise and emotions, and no one is paying any particular attention to him but his waitress, who is looking at him like she’s going to come over here again and ask him if he wants anything else. To which he will respond with an emphatic ‘no’ and an equally emphatic request to bugger off. There’s only so much of this treatment a demon can take and continue to be polite.

He thinks she’s under the impression that he’s been stood up. Which would bother him less if it weren’t looking more and more like that was the case.

Bloody angels.

And of course, that’s the moment the angel chooses to show up, appearing with no warning and almost causing him to spill his coffee. He curses, the cup jostling, and he barely catches it in time.

“Warn a guy next time you do that, would you?” he snaps, giving the angel his most impressive glare.

Castiel does not seem impressed.

“You are the one who called this meeting,” he points out.

“Yes, and you’re bloody well late,” Crowley replies. The waitress is looking his way again, and flicks his fingers dismissively in her direction. She seems more willing to leave him be now that he is no longer sitting alone. “Coffee?” he asks. “They’ve got the best in the city.”

Castiel ignores the question like the rude bastard he is. “I assume you wished to further discuss our deal,” he says instead, and Crowley sighs. No sense of fun, some angels.

“Just a routine follow up,” he agrees, and maybe that’s not quite the case, but he thinks he can be excused his watchfulness. If Raphael wins this little powwow, everything he’s worked for goes spiraling down the drain. Along with his life. He doesn’t reiterate this fact, instead asking, “Have you had a chance to see if those souls are of any use?” It’s always hard to determine how much time passes in Heaven compared to Earth. With Hell, it’s easy; one month topside is ten years below. Simple arithmetic. But time has never run linearly in Heaven, which makes everything far more complicated. An Earth second could be a century up there, or vice versa. There’s no sure way to tell. So, even though he last saw Castiel last night there’s no telling how many battles the angel has waged since then.

Sure enough, Castiel nods, albeit reluctantly. “I have,” he says. “They are… helpful. We have been winning more often than not, lately.”

He views the angel with a critical eye. His vessel looks worn thin, tiredness seeping out of every crack, his shoulders slumped and his eyes bloodshot. Carrying around two hundred thousand damned souls can’t be easy for a holy being, but if exhaustion is the only visible sign of strain, he must be doing alright with them. He shrugs.

“Alright then,” he says. “Just wanted to make sure.”

This whole situation is the absolute worst, and he’s barely getting anything out of it at all. He should have pushed harder for Purgatory.

“Also, Dean has been made aware of the situation,” Castiel continues, and he almost knocks over his coffee. Again, because _what?_

“That’s quite a change in tune,” he says, and a thought occurs to him. “How much of the situation did you tell him, exactly?”

Castiel gives him a hard stare, for a moment reminding him of someone else. “All of it,” he says. “He knows of the war, and of our bargain. He is displeased, but he seemed willing enough to accept it.”

Fantastic. “Are you sure about that?” he presses. “I don’t fancy the idea of being summoned and killed in some misguided attempt to defend your honor. Especially not by that arse.” He doesn’t know if that knife of theirs would actually kill him, but he doesn’t want to find out. The Colt almost certainly would, in any case.

Hm. He should try getting that back sometime. Good insurance.

Castiel glares. “He will not,” he says, “and even if he did, I would hardly see that as a great loss.”

He picks up his mug, sloshing his coffee back and forth. “It would be a great loss to me, you nitwit,” he says, and stabs a finger in the angel’s direction. “See, this is why you don’t have any friends. There’s such a thing as diplomacy, you know.”

“I do know. I just happen to think that such a thing is wasted on you. I did not come here to exchange pleasantries,” Castiel growls, and his hands clench into fists. Crowley would congratulate himself for finally managing to make the angel lose his composure if it weren’t for the holy power suddenly gathering around him, oxidizing the air, a clear threat.

Oh, well. He’s faced angels far older and far more righteous. If this is the best Castiel’s got, then the world might be doomed after all.

“The souls are… useful,” Castiel continues. Even this admission seems forced, grudging, like pulling teeth. “However, I still have nowhere near the power needed to kill Raphael.”

He raises an eyebrow. “And that’s what you’re going with? Kill? Not subdue or defeat?”

“I don’t see that I have any other choice. Raphael will continue his efforts to restart the Apocalypse as long as he is alive and able,” Castiel bites out. “I also don’t see why you care.”

“Oh, I don’t,” he dismisses. Indeed, he would be very happy to put a blade through the bastard’s heart himself. “I just rather thought you might, is all.” He raises a hand, cutting the angel off before he can speak again. “I can look for something that’ll do the job, but I wouldn’t count my chickens. Not many archangel blades circulating at the moment, and I don’t know what else’d do it.” He does a mental tally. Michael and Lucifer, in the Cage, inaccessible. Gabriel, dead. And Raphael himself would rather die than let his out of his hands.

Castiel deflates a little, as much as he tries to hide it. “Look,” he orders. “There must be something.”

Probably. But he doesn’t like the angel’s tone. “I am not your dog, Castiel,” he says, and makes his eyes flash red. “We had a deal. You can’t demand of me whatever you want. It doesn’t bloody work that way.” He scowls, considering. “What about Heaven’s armory? Have you reclaimed that yet?”

If it is possible for an angel to shifty, Castiel does. “...Yes,” he says. “However, most of its contents have gone… missing.”

Un-bloody-believable. “You _lost_ Heaven’s armory? How the hell did you manage that?” And there goes his best plan. There’s a particular weapon he’s thinking of, a sword that lit on fire, designed to protect the Garden from any and all threats, including archangels. _Especially_ archangels, which was part of the reason Lucifer didn’t deal with the apple thing personally. Bloody coward.

To hear the sword is lost because this idiot of an angel can’t keep track of his things is… vexing.

“I’ll keep an eye out,” he says, his hands folding on the table. “I’ve got contacts you couldn’t touch, so maybe I’ll get lucky, but I wouldn’t hold my breath.”

Castiel lifts an imperious eyebrow. “I do not need to breathe,” he assures him, and that’s it. He can’t take any more of this. If his patience is a wire, it’s just been cut in half and then run over by a bulldozer.

“Right. Ciao then,” he says, and before he can do something stupid like try to wring the angel’s neck, and before the angel can think to stop him, he teleports out of the cafe, out of the city, landing in New York, in a dark corner of Grand Central Terminal. A crack appears in the wall behind him, and he reins in his temper with an effort.

He’s not getting _anything_ out of this at all, and his efforts still might fail. Castiel might still lose, Raphael might still restart the Apocalypse for the third fucking time, and the world might still burn.

“Let it,” he mutters, though he knows it’s a lie. He’s never been able to get over his ill-advised attachment to this world, no matter how hard he tries to convince himself he doesn’t care. Leftover sentiment from days long past, and he tries to pretend it’s not still an open wound.

He watches the humans pass, all hustle and bustle, minds on their destinations and how long it will take them to get there, unaware they might all be snuffed out in a month’s time. Mice, the lot of them, blissfully ignorant of the snake that studies them. Plenty of souls, ripe for the taking.

He rolls his eyes. “Morons,” he says, and sets to work.

The archangel won’t kill himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fellas, is it gay to gaze soulfully into your friend's eyes?
> 
> Thanks for all the kudos and comments guys, y'all are great. I would like to warn you, though, I'm not sure that this update pace is something I can keep up forever. I only just now finished chapter ten, and while it's literally the longest chapter of anything I have ever written, clocking in at over 6k, it did take me about three weeks to write. Also, school starts in a month. No need to worry yet, I'm still on top of things, but I thought I should warn you now that at some unknown point in the future, updates will probably be slower.
> 
> Next Chapter: Being Sam is suffering, as per usual. Aziraphale is... semi-helpful.


	7. In Which Sam is Not Having a Great Time

Before today, and before the events of 1990, the last time Aziraphale saw Death was during the Great War. Or rather, World War I, but that name would come later.

Aziraphale hated the whole ordeal. The humans were thinking up increasingly effective and creative ways to kill each other, were dying in droves and coming home in pieces, if at all, and the worst part about it was that he was powerless to do anything to stop it. Because this mess was not caused by hellish meddling or by angelic interference; no, humans had done this all on their own, and he had to  _ let  _ them.

Crowley claimed to be having the time of his life, but he knew better, could see the strain in the demon’s eyes and the forced quality of his smiles.

He traveled, during the war. Went from place to place and battlefield to battlefield with a thought and a wingbeat, offering as much comfort as he could as often as he was able. He walked both sides of the trenches, soothing the fears of a young British lad only an hour or so after finishing a card game with a group of German boys. Because that’s all they were, really, boys, sent off to fight and die in a pointless war engineered by old men hundreds of miles away who would never have to stare down the barrel of a gun, sequestered in cozy little rooms and drinking tea.

He loved humanity, he really did, but sometimes they made him want to retch.

He eased wounds when he could, cured the sick and healed the dying, though he couldn’t save all of them; his grace was stretched paper thin within a matter of days. The first time he saw Death, though far from the last, it was only a week into his self-imposed mission, and he was sitting in the middle of no man’s land as bullets and bombs whizzed harmlessly past him, holding the hand of a French soldier who he knew would never see home. A chill ran down his spine, and he looked up, and Death was there, crouching, a scythe in one bony hand, his cloak shifting in the nonexistent breeze as if there was nothing underneath it at all.

AZIRAPHALE, he greeted.

“Death,” Aziraphale replied, inclining his head. He was calm, prepared for this encounter; surrounded by death as he was, he expected Death to make an appearance sooner or later.

They did not speak again. There was no need. As the man breathed his last, Death tugged free his soul, severing it from its body in one neat cut. He cradled it gently, and its soft glow cast strange shadows on Death’s skull. Then, the being was gone.

Aziraphale has never forgotten that, nor any of the encounters that followed throughout the duration of the war. Even when not visible, Death was never far away.

He never really is.

When Death returns with Sam’s soul, nothing about the situation is as it once was. For one thing, Death is still sans scythe and has a face of flesh and blood, or at least the illusion of one. He does not hold Sam’s soul in his hand, but he does carry a nondescript briefcase.

And he is returning a soul, this time, not collecting it.

Aziraphale does not notice his entrance, lost in his own thoughts as he is, but Adam is not so absent minded.

“That was quicker than I thought,” he remarks, and Aziraphale jerks, finally noticing the chill in the room, the heaviness the air has taken on. Adam is right; Aziraphale thought it would take longer to retrieve a soul from the Cage, even for Death himself. But it has not even been a full day; outside, the sun has only just begun to set, bathing Adam’s living room in a gentle orange light. On the couch, Sam’s face is awash, seeming to glow as he sleeps, his features slack and peaceful.

I TAKE PRIDE IN MY EXPEDIENCY, Death says, and glides forward to stand over Sam, staring at the young man impassively. It must make a strange sight, Aziraphale thinks: Lucifer’s vessel unconscious, Death hovering a pace away, and an angel and the Antichrist sitting across from them, almost done with their shared kettle of tea.

Crowley would make a joke. An angel, an Antichrist, and Death walk into a pub. Or something like that. Aziraphale tries to push the thought away, because thinking of the demon makes his chest tight and uncomfortable with worry.

I HAVE HIS SOUL, Death says, shifting the briefcase in his hand, and Aziraphale’s gaze is drawn to it. It is innocuous, plain black without ornamentation save for the silver clasps on top. Looking at it, no one would suspect its contents. HOWEVER, BEFORE I CAN REPLACE IT, THERE IS SOMETHING THAT MUST BE DISCUSSED.

Oh. That does not bode well. His grip tightens on his teacup; by now, it is empty, but he likes having something to hold on to. His nerves are coming back now, increasing with every moment Death remains in the room. “And that is?” he asks, as politely as he can manage.

Death regards him, one eyebrow raised, and he resists the urge to shrink back. SAM WINCHESTER’S SOUL HAS BEEN IN THE CAGE WITH THE ARCHANGELS FOR AN IMMEASURABLE AMOUNT OF TIME, Death says. THE DAMAGE HAS THE POTENTIAL TO BE CATASTROPHIC.

A weight settles in his stomach like a block of lead. “Oh,” Aziraphale says. “And you can’t take that from him?”

NO, Death says. GOD COULD. BUT WHILE YOUR PRESENCE HERE INDICATES SOME LEVEL OF INTEREST, I DON’T SEE HIM DROPPING IN. AN ARCHANGEL COULD ASSUAGE IT, PERHAPS, BUT THERE ARE NONE CURRENTLY AVAILABLE TO US, AND CERTAINLY NONE WHO WOULD TRUST US ENOUGH TO COME, SHOULD WE CALL.

He frowns. Gabriel might, if he asked him very nicely. But then, it has been seventeen years, and the archangel has trust issues anyway, so perhaps not.

Adam sets his cup down on his saucer with a clatter. “What are the options, then?” he asks. “I’m assumin’ you’ve got some.” His voice is as affable as ever, but glancing over, Aziraphale can see the steel in his eyes. This is the matter of a human soul, and Adam is treating the situation with all the gravity it deserves.

I DO, Death says. THE FIRST IS THAT I PLACE HIS SOUL BACK WITHIN HIS BODY AS THE SITUATION STANDS, WITHOUT TAKING PRECAUTIONS, AND LET THE CARDS FALL WHERE THEY MAY.

That… does not seem like a good idea. “And the others?” Aziraphale asks.

JUST ONE, Death says. I CANNOT HEAL OR TAKE THE DAMAGE FROM HIM. HOWEVER, I CAN BUILD A WALL IN HIS MIND AND PLACE HIS MEMORIES OF THE CAGE BEHIND IT. SO LONG AS HE DOES NOT POKE AT IT, IT SHOULD HOLD, AND HE WILL HAVE NO RECOLLECTION OF HELL.

That sounds somewhat better. But the more he considers it, the less it sounds like a viable solution. Or like a solution at all. More like a band aid slapped over a stab wound. He’s only known Sam for a day, but he doesn’t seem like the type not to be bothered by a gaping hole in his memories. “And if he doesn’t leave it alone?” he asks. “If the wall came down?”

AGAIN, POTENTIALLY CATASTROPHIC, BUT MORE SO THAN BEFORE. HE WOULD HAVE NO RESISTANCE AGAINST THE DELUGE. IT COULD BE ENOUGH TO DRIVE HIM MAD.

An unacceptable outcome.

“And those are the only two options?” he asks.

Death inclines his head. UNLESS YOU WISH ME NOT TO REPLACE HIS SOUL AT ALL, YES.

He frowns. There seems to be no good option here. He doesn’t want Sam to be burdened with all the damage that has been inflicted on his soul, but if the only other option leaves him with a high likelihood of insanity in the future, what other choice is there? Uncertain, he exchanges glances with Adam, who shrugs. His lips are pursed in a thoughtful frown.

“‘M not exactly an expert,” he says slowly, “seein’ as I’ve never been to Hell, but it seems to me that in general it’s not good for us humans to bottle up things instead of dealing with them.”

Aziraphale is inclined to agree. That doesn’t mean he has to like it.

_ Oh dear Father, please let this be the right decision. Please let this be what you brought me back to do. _

“Then no wall,” he says. “It’s too risky. Whatever happens, we’ll help him deal with it, but I won’t let him be driven insane.” The conviction in his voice masks the turmoil rolling through him. This really is a choice Sam should make for himself, but if he were awake, it’s likely that he would refuse to take back his soul at all, and that just won’t do either. 

This can’t possibly be the best choice, though; if it were, he wouldn’t feel so guilty about it.

Adam places his hand on his shoulder and gives it a few light pats, a clumsy attempt at comfort that Aziraphale is more than willing to accept. At least he has the Antichrist’s support.

VERY WELL, Death says, tone unreadable. THEN I SEE NO FURTHER REASON TO DELAY. UNLESS YOU HAVE ANY OBJECTIONS, I WILL BEGIN.

Aziraphale remains silent. So does Adam.

I WOULD TELL YOU TO CLOSE YOUR EYES, Death says, BUT WITH YOU TWO, IT WOULDN’T MAKE MUCH DIFFERENCE. Then, Death lifts up his briefcase, opens the latches, and the room floods with light.

Sam’s soul is bright, shining and pure and full of love. And even as Aziraphale recognizes this, he sees the darkness in it, the pall over its warm glow, sees the way that parts of it have been ripped to tatters and shreds and pieced back together again just a little bit wrong. It is a miracle, really, that this soul is still holding itself together, a miracle that despite all the torment it has been through it can still shine with the brilliance of a star. This soul is damaged, to be sure, damaged but far from broken, swirling with determination to continue, to survive, to  _ live _ .

Somehow, Aziraphale expected no less.

With hands that flicker between flesh and bone, Death gently places the soul over Sam’s chest. And then, he shoves.

And the room goes still, and it feels like all the world is holding its breath.

 

* * *

 

 

Sam wakes slowly, drifting slowly to awareness like he hasn’t since he was a kid and was scared of the dark rather than the things that hid there. There is a reason, he thinks, to not feel so content. Something has happened, something is wrong. There’s something he can’t quite remember, sliding just out of reach every time he tries to grasp it. Maybe it’s better that way, though; there’s something in him warning against pressing, against pushing too hard. For once, he listens. He doesn’t think he wants to know.

“Sam?”

A whispered voice, hesitant and only slightly familiar. He doesn’t want to respond, wants to stay here in this quiet darkness, where there is nothing to care about, nothing to trouble him. But the voice--- he knows the voice, who does it belong to---?

Then---

He remembers---

Long, endless nights that he can’t sleep through no matter how hard he tries, an empty, gaping hole inside him where his feelings should be that he does his best to ignore, a strange angel he picks up by the side of the road, a diner. His brother, sitting at a table, Lisa and Ben, smiling. All juxtaposed over Lucifer, the howling, freezing expanse of the Cage, Lucifer ripping into him, smiling, growling, screaming, wearing Dean’s face and spitting hatred, wearing Bobby’s, wearing Dad’s, wearing everyone they haven’t saved, wearing everyone who’s died for them, for him, wearing Mom, Jess, Ash, Pamela, Gabriel, Ellen, Jo---

His eyes snap open, and he is greeted with the sight of an unfamiliar ceiling. Which version of events is the truth? Was he sitting in a diner just moments ago, or were his hands being broken one bone at a time? Is he out of Hell, back in a solid body, or is this another one of Lucifer’s tricks, a brief reprieve before the pain sets in again?”

He is hyperventilating, he realizes. Hyperventilating, and his mouth is open, but no sound emerges but a pitiful wheeze. He feels like a vice is squeezing his chest, like he can’t get enough air, like he’s dying all over again---

“Sam!” And then--- a hand on his forehead, a rush of angelic grace washing over him. He almost recoils, but--- this grace isn’t like Lucifer’s grace. This grace is peaceful, soothing, and warm, warm where Lucifer’s is freezing cold. He feels his body relaxing, his back straightening from the painful arch he hadn’t known it was in, and his head clears, his memories fleeing to the back of his mind so he can think, focus. He looks to the side and is met with a pair of bright, worried eyes behind a pair of thick glasses.

The angel. Aziraphale. Is his name Aziraphale? That sounds right. And with that recollection comes all the rest: the car drive, the diner, the conversation they had. Both versions of events are true, he realizes. Both are true because his body was walking around on Earth while his soul was being flayed in the Cage, and he had wanted to leave it there.

He wanted to  _ leave _ it there.

Oh, God.

“Not your fault,” the angel says. Aziraphale says. “You can’t be held responsible for your actions. You were missing the most essential part of yourself, and you mustn't blame yourself for it.”

Those are nice platitudes. If only he could believe them. “How did you--?” he asks, but that’s all he can manage before his voice gives out on him. His throat feels like he tried to swallow barbed wire. Luckily, Aziraphale seems to understand what he’s getting at.

“It’s really more Adam’s doing than mine,” he says cheerfully, gesturing over his shoulder. Sam tracks the motion. The angel himself is kneeling on the floor next to the… couch? The couch that he’s currently lying on, but behind him, there is a man sitting in an armchair. The man has blonde hair and tan skin and chiseled features, almost like a marble statue come to life. He looks a lot like he once thought angels would looks like, if he’s being honest. Beautiful, almost unearthly, almost to the point of being untouchable.

The man gives a warm smile and a little wave. Sam blinks.

“That’s Adam,” Aziraphale offers, a bit unnecessarily. “He’s rather good friends with Death, so he convinced him to pop down there and get your soul back for you. You just missed him, actually.”

If that’s the case, then Sam will count his blessings. He has no desire to see Death anytime soon. Then, the rest of the statement registers with him, and he maneuvers himself into a sitting position, ignoring Aziraphale’s worried clucking and the sudden wave of dizziness in favor of locking eyes with the man. Adam.

“Death got my soul back from Hell,” he says, “because you’re  _ friends _ ? And, um. Thank you.”

Adam shrugs, mouth twisting apologetically. “I’m the Antichrist,” he says. “I think he finds me amusing.” And before Sam can even begin to unpack that, he continues, “And you don’t ever have to thank me for that. I’m so sorry for what  _ he _ did to you. You didn’t deserve any of that.”

And that--- that draws Sam up short. He doesn’t know how to answer that. Because he’s fine. Physically, at least. He’s uninjured, he can move without unspeakable agony ripping through him and has been able to do so for months. Physically.

But there’s a part of him that expects this to be a trick. Expects the world to fracture into pieces around his feet and reveal Lucifer grinning at him, all pearly white teeth, saying,  _ so sorry to get your hopes up, Sam, but did you really think anyone was coming for you?  _ before ripping out his heart and crushing it where he can see, wearing Dean’s face once again.

He knows that’s not going to happen. On some level, he knows that he’s out, because he feels solid, present in a way that he hasn’t in who knows how long, and besides, it wouldn’t make much sense to stick him in an illusion of people he’s never met before. Much less potential for emotional devastation. And yet, there’s a part of him that can’t help but anticipate it, can’t help but wait for the rug to be swept out from under him.

Aziraphale’s hand twitches, and he looks like he wants to reach out, to comfort, but isn’t certain of his reception. Sam is glad for his restraint; he doesn’t think he could handle a veritable stranger touching him right now, no matter how well-meaning. Dean, maybe, but not---

_ Dean _ .

He groans, and Aziraphale is immediately on alert. “What is it?” he asks. “What’s wrong?”

“My brother,” he replies, “Dean. He thinks I’m dead.” He passes a hand across his face. “I was right there, at Lisa’s. And I just walked away.” Dean is going to kill him. Sure, he wanted his brother to be safe and happy, but he also knows that Dean deserves to know he’s alive. And now, with hellfire dancing in the back of his mind, he wants to see his brother now more than ever, old instincts rising to the surface, telling him that Dean will make the hurt go away. A remnant from older times, when Dean was the solution to every problem.

“Well,” Aziraphale is saying, and Sam forces himself to tune in, “that’s easily amendable. It was actually Death’s sole condition for retrieving your soul, that you and your brother be reunited. Something about the world potentially being at stake, I believe?”

That sounds just about par the course for them. How exciting.

“I don’t suppose he was more specific?” he asks. “I mean, the Apocalypse is over, right?” It had better be. If he jumped into the Cage for nothing, he might actually have that breakdown he feels swirling in his head.

Aziraphale cocks an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t really know,” he points out, “seeing as I’ve been alive for roughly a day and a half now. I certainly haven’t sensed anything, if that is at all reassuring to you, though I have not yet attempted to reconnect with Heaven. Once bitten, twice shy and all that.” He pauses. “You really must tell me more about this Apocalypse of yours sometime. I’d like to parse out why they thought having another one would be a good idea.”

“Right,” Sam says, though he doesn't much relish the thought. There is something about this angel, an earnestness that makes Sam not want to disappoint him, and his soulless self was light on the details when he gave the overview yesterday. He’ll take the blame, of course; he knows perfectly well that the whole thing was his fault. But something in him balks at revealing he was chugging demon blood. “And you could tell me more about yours,” he adds, both fishing for a distraction and genuinely curious. He recalls what Aziraphale mentioned in the diner, about an Antichrist who decided to cancel. He meets Adam’s gaze, and the man grins.

Huh.

And there’s the demon he mentioned. Odd, for an angel to speak of a demon so fondly. And somewhat concerning.

He’s about to ask about it when, from the front door, there is the sound of a key jiggling in the lock.  He goes rigid, every muscle locking up, and instinctive reaction that he can’t stop. The door opens, and he half-expects to see Lucifer walking in, but it isn’t; it’s a woman, wearing a suit, with bright red hair cut in an asymmetrical bob. She closes the door behind her, humming softly to herself, and it is then that she notices that all is not normal in the room. Her eyes land on Sam before traveling to Aziraphale and going wide.

“Mr. Fell?” she asks, placing her briefcase down on the floor.

Aziraphale offers her a faint smile, but before he can reply, Adam stands up, turning to greet her with a wide grin. “He’s been brought back,” he agrees. “Don’t really know why yet, but isn’t it neat? Oh, and this is Sam, he stopped an Apocalypse over in the States, and we just got finished getting his soul back.” Then, as an afterthought, “Hullo, Pepper.”

“Hello Adam,” the woman responds automatically. She blinks, taking in the room. Then, she sighs. “Alright,” she says. “Typical Friday, then. It’s good to see you again, Mr. Fell. And it’s nice to to meet you, Sam. I’m Pepper,” she adds, and she looks like she wants to more forward, probably to shake his hand, but something about him makes her refrain. Sam can’t help but be glad for it. “Has Adam offered you anything? Food? He’s rubbish at hosting.”

“We’ve had quite a lot of tea in the past few hours, yes,” Aziraphale assures her, then casts a sideways look at Sam, as if waiting for him to say something. He doesn't. The mere mention of food has his stomach turning over in protest. “Terribly sorry to intrude like this, without any notice.”

Pepper laughs and kicks off her shoes, coming around to sit in the armchair next to Adam’s, Adam sitting again as well. “Don’t be,” she says. “Adam’s had to put up with all of my girlfriends, and I dare say you’re much better company.”

Sam decides that he likes her.

“Speaking of which,” she continues, “will you be staying the night, then? We’ve a couple of guest bedrooms that can be made up.”

“Sam?” Aziraphale turns to him with a question in his eyes, and he realizes that the decision is up to him. Out of the two of them, he’s the only one that needs to sleep. Should need to sleep. Not that he’s been doing much of that the past few months, body or soul. And not that he particularly wants to now; he’s holding himself together fairly well at the moment, but as soon as he lets himself sleep, that will change. He can feel the devil lurking in his subconscious, ready to strike as soon as he lets his guard down. And sure, it will be just a figment of his imagination, but if there’s one thing he’s learned, it’s that something being all in his head doesn’t make it any less real.

And he wants to get to Dean. The sooner the better. Though, now that he’s thinking about it, it may be a good idea to check in with Bobby first. The old man deserves better that the treatment he’s been giving him. And he’s still a little reluctant to disturb Dean’s life with the Braedens.

As soon as he thought come to him, exhaustion hits him like a freight train. He’s in no state of mind for any emotionally fraught reunions tonight, as much as he wishes that were otherwise. But maybe that’s for the better; there’s a Devil in his mind and rips and tears in his soul and he’s edging closer and closer to another panic attack. He’d be having one already if he weren’t so exhausted.

“Oh, dear.” Aziraphale is watching him with concern. His hands flutter nervously, as if he’s not sure what to do with them. “Are you sure you don’t want anything? Tea, perhaps? Oh, dear. Pepper, I think we’ll have to accept that offer.”

He says ‘tea’ like he thinks the drink is the solution to any problem. And maybe, to him, it is, and Sam appreciates the gesture, even if it’s little help. Because this is the point where Sam loses it. It might be the trauma clamouring to be heard, or he might just be tired-- or more likely, it’s a combination of both-- but his head goes fuzzy, and he suddenly finds interacting with the world around him to take too much effort, energy that he no longer has. Someone is speaking to him, but he can’t focus on the words enough to know what they’re saying, much less reply.

What little focus he has left, he concentrates on remembering. Remembering that he’s out. That he’s free.

Then, there is movement, and then, he is in a bed. The mattress is soft and the pillow even more so, comfortable in a way that he barely remembers. It is easy to drift off after that, a gentle voice crooning lullabies into his ear.

He is at peace, until he isn’t. Because the voice is Lucifer’s.

The Devil finds him in his dreams.

He always does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's another chapter I'm not entirely happy with, but hey! Sam's up! I mean he's feeling pretty down but he's up! And Aziraphale's trying his best.
> 
> ... Guys. 100 kudos?? Holy shit thank you so much I love you all.
> 
> Next Chapter: We take a little break from Winchesters&Co. and see what Gabriel's up to. Here's a hint: he's not fine. Not quite as not fine as in canon but. Still not fine. Also, Balthazar. Can the world handle the snark? Only time will tell.


	8. In Which Gabriel Pretends to Have His Life Together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Going to take this opportunity to restate that this fic is very much not canon in regards to a lot of information we learn after season five. In this instance, as much as I love what they did with Gabriel in season thirteen (up until they killed him off again for no damn reason), it is not canon in this case. Asmodeus has never had him (tbh I haven't even decided if knockoff KFC Man even exists in this timeline), and he and Loki are one and the same.

She is immaculately put together, as always; her hair is perfectly curled around her face, her lips painted ruby red, her eyes clear and piercing as she sips her lemonade, watching him. The tables around them are empty; the humans may not notice anything out of the ordinary about her, but on a primal level they know that something isn’t right. She doesn’t spend enough time on Earth to be very good at masking herself, the aura she carries. She is other, and everyone knows it.

“Hello, Father,” she says. “How have you been?”

Loki grins, leaning back in his chair and snapping a Snickers into existence. “Better than ever, thanks to you,” he says.

“That’s a lie,” she replies.

Out of all his children, Hel is the one who has grown to be the most like him. Persistent, observant, and stubborn to a fault, and while her sense of humor is dryer than his, that can probably be blamed on her domain. As a goddess of death, she tends to regard the tricks he plays as being juvenile, beneath him, though she can appreciate the irony in them. Unlike him, though, she often refuses to accept the inevitable. She missed out on inheriting his nihilistic streak, and he honestly doesn’t know whether that’s a good thing or not.

It’s what led her to resurrect him. But again, jury’s still out on whether that’s a good thing or not.

“What makes you say that?” he asks, knowing that she’ll recognize it for the deflection it is. That’s another thing about her; every conversation moves on a thousand layers, and for anyone not paying enough attention, that can make it hard to keep up. A person could promise their soul to her with a smile and not realize it for hours after the fact.

“I know you,” she responds. She picks up a french fry from her plate and contemplates it like it holds the secret to unlocking the universe. “I know what you look like when you’re upset. You become more vindictive, less clever and more cruel.”

“And have I been?”

She stares at him. “You fed a child molester his genitals last week,” she says. “Not that he didn’t deserve it, but that’s not what you would have done a year ago.”

She’s right, of course, and he can recognize that in himself. He’s been angrier lately, less likely to take his time with things and more likely to go in for the kill, both literally and figuratively. His methods have stopped being even remotely funny, his MO becoming dramatically less like a pagan trickster god and more like the archangel he’s spend millennia refusing to be. And he can’t make himself stop.

The balance within him has been disrupted. Once, it was simple to satisfy both sides of himself, to take part in pagan mischief and magic and an archangel’s righteous justice at the same time. Now, he he tips severely toward one side or the other, giving him whiplash, and he doesn’t know how to correct it, or even if he should, or when it started.

That’s a lie. He knows exactly when it started. It started when his brother stabbed him with his own blade, rammed it into his chest with only the faintest look of regret on his face, holding  him as he exploded out of existence. And then waking up, every nerve ending on fire, his daughter kneeling over him, his vessel too small to contain him, like it was going to come apart at the seams, pagan magic and his own grace rolling through him and making him feel like he was coming to pieces.

It’s hard for him to tell who he is anymore. He’s not even sure he wants to know.

“You worry too much,” he tells her. “I’m fine.”

Hel rolls her eyes. Hard.

Wow. Such disrespect. He doesn’t know what he expected.

“The last time you started acting like this,” she says, “you went and partied with Bacchus at revelry for six months. We started to think that you’d gotten yourself killed.”

He winces, because he remembers that time all too well. 1990, three weeks after the first attempted Apocalypse. He turned to booze and sex and magic to help him forget about what he now knew had to be coming, because Heaven does not give up its plans so easily, and certainly not because a child told them to. And to fill the empty pit inside of him where home used to be, only deepened by the reminder of what he once was. It was six months before Fenrir found him and dragged him back to solid ground, and years after that before he became even remotely coherent. It was then that he learned of Aziraphale’s death, his last tentative connection to Heaven gone, all because he was too deep in his cups to realize he needed help, too much of a coward to face himself.

Not an experience he’s eager to repeat. Never let it be said that he doesn’t learn from his mistakes. Most of the time.

“Fair point,” he says, “but I’m not planning to go on a bender anytime soon.” He takes a moment to crush the annoyance he feels rising up in him. She’s only giving him the third degree because she cares, which is a nicer thought than he wants to admit.

“That doesn’t mean you’re alright,” Hel persists. “I think you should talk to someone about this. Someone, if not me.”

Talk about  _ what _ ? How exactly does one broach that subject?  _ Yes, hi, I’m an ancient archangel of phenomenal cosmic power, literally the messenger of God, and I’m also a pagan god of tricks and mischief, and I got myself killed by my dick of an older brother a couple of months ago so now I’m having that world’s worst identity crisis. _ Yup. Sounds like a great plan, that. And who exactly is he supposed to talk to? His siblings? Ignoring the fact that they all think he’s dead, for real this time, they’d be more likely to condemn him than to offer him any kind of help. Besides, he hasn’t been keeping a close ear on angel radio lately, but anyone with any degree of supernatural ability can tell that all is not well behind the pearly gates.

Nah. Better to do what he’s always done-- bottle everything up and pretend he doesn’t have feelings. It’s worked pretty well for him so far, so why mess with a good thing?

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he says, and Hel sighs.

“No you won’t,” she replies. “I don’t know why I bother.” She shoots him a look. “How’s Kali?”

Wow. Low blow.

“Alive, last I heard, but beyond that? Don’t know, don’t really care.” That much is at least mostly true; any lingering affection for Kali pretty much ended the moment she tried, in earnest, to kill him. Would’ve put a damper on any functioning relationship, and at that point, they didn’t even have that. Though, if that’s the case he should probably reexamine his reasoning for playing distraction for Lucifer; if it wasn’t for Kali, then there weren’t a whole lot of other reasons to do it, so--

Or, he could just… not go there.

Yeah. Good plan.

“Very well,” Hel concedes, though the knowing look in her eyes suggests she’s more aware of the direction of his thoughts than he would like. “How about Dog?”

That manages to put a genuine smile on his face, because he fucking loves his terrier. “Great as always,” he says. “I’m sure he’d love for you to visit.”

She nods, the corners of her mouth twitching. “I will do so. For Dog, of course.”

“For Dog,” he agrees.

“There was another reason I asked to meet you here,” she continues. She pushes her empty plate forward and folds her hands on the table.

“Oh?” he says, raising an eyebrow. “What, changing tact now that’s you’ve failed to get me to talk about my feelings?”

“Something like that,” she says dryly. “One of my followers has alerted me to a… situation that she finds somewhat concerning. After learning of the details, I find myself inclined to agree.”

He frowns, intrigued despite himself, and gestures for her to continue. Whenever Hel of all goddesses finds something concerning, it’s a good policy to shut up and pay attention. She leans in closer, and he mirrors her, finishing off the last of his Snickers.

“This follower of mine,” she says, “travels in high social circles and has heard some troubling rumors.” She lowers her voice further. “She describes talk of a being who offers access to holy weapons in exchange for a claim on a human soul.”

He feels his eyebrows shoot up, because that  _ is _ concerning. Holy weapons have no place on earth, and they would imply the presence of an angel. But the method, claiming souls, is more like that of a pagan god, or even a crossroads demon. Either way, it’s worrying that someone has enough celestial power that they feel comfortable bargaining it away. What they would want with human souls, he couldn’t say, but it’s not likely to be anything good.

“You want me to look into it,” he surmises. “What’s in it for me if I do?” He’s not about to stick his neck out without incentive, not after what happened last time, and he knows that Hel doesn’t expect anything different.

“Besides having the gratitude of your loving daughter and ignoring the fact that you owe me?” She smiles, and a gold-embossed invitation appears in her hand. “My follower has told me that she’s heard the dealer will be making an appearance at this gala tonight. Plenty of alcohol and schmoozing, mostly old rich white men in attendance.” She hands him the invitation, and he studies the address contemplatively. “Plenty of potential targets, plenty of opportunities. You can’t tell me that doesn’t appeal to you.”

He can’t. He sees the trap closing in around him, and he steps in willingly. What’s the worst that could happen?

“Alright,” he says. “Sounds fun.” It should take his mind off of his own issues at least; maybe it’ll even help solve them. If there’s a chance of him getting his groove back, he’ll take it.

Something in him is whispering that this is going to end badly, that there’s more going on here than he knows. It sounds like his common sense, and he puts it aside. He needs  _ something _ to distract him, and honestly, worst case scenario? It turns out to be angel stuff and he has to figure out where to go from there.

It’s probably worth it, even if his daughter is definitely manipulating him.

Hel inclines her head. “Thank you, Father,” she says, and the gratitude in her voice is real.

Yeah. Worth it.

 

* * *

 

 

The address on the invitation takes him to a mansion. Lights spill out of every window, turning the night to day, and if he listens closely, he can hear that low buzz of conversation and muted, polite laughter. Glasses clink and champagne flows, and people pretend that they wouldn’t rather be anywhere else. Not really his kind of party; there’s not enough sex going on, for one thing, and he could drink all the champagne in a five mile radius and it wouldn’t even make him tipsy. But he’ll make do. He’s not here for the booze, after all.

It is easy enough to slip in under the guise of a server, snapping on a white shirt and black bow tie and grabbing a platter of tiny pretentious sandwiches, the kind with fancy toothpicks holding them together. He tries one. The bread is stale. Yum. But for times like these, a waiter is his preferred disguise. He can tell a lot about a person from the way they treat people they consider lesser than them, and it also makes it a lot easier to listen in on conversations when the people he’s eavesdropping on equate him with a piece of furniture. Not that he’ll be needing to do much of that; he can pick out what these people are doing just by looking at them. That one’s cheating on his wife. So is that one. And that one. The short one in the corner is  _ beating _ his wife, and he makes a mental note. Ooh, that one is illegally importing drugs. It’s child’s play to plant some coke on him and arrange things so he’ll meet up with some law enforcement before the night is out.

Yep. Fun. Not boring at all.

It takes a moment for him to spot his daughter’s devotee, though once he does, she’s hard to miss. There is a claim burned across her soul that anyone looking could see, reading something along the lines of  _ PROPERTY OF HEL DO NOT TOUCH OR ELSE _ .

Yeah. Follower. Super platonic. He hopes the lady knows what she’s getting into. Hel doesn’t like to give up what’s hers.

He watches as she finishes her conversation with a smarmy-looking older guy, then makes his way over to her, humming the Mission: Impossible theme. The crowds part in front of him, though they don’t seem to notice they’re doing it. He waves his platter under her nose.

“Tiny sandwich?” he offers.

“Oh, no thank you, I--” she starts, but cuts herself off as she turns to look at him. Really look, that is. “Oh.”

“Hi,” Loki says.

“Hello,” she replies. “Um, you’re… um. Sorry. I thought you’d be taller?”

“I’m a perfectly respectable height, I’ll have you know,” he says, “but yes, I am. Nice to meet you, what’s your name?”

“Sydney.”

“Sydney. Great. So,  my daughter told me you’ve been hearing something about holy weapons, yes?”

She relaxes, more comfortable now that they’re talking business. “Yes, just rumors, but rumors like that don’t come from nothing. And ever since we, uh… since I became Hel’s follower, I’ve been able to sense things. Not much, but I’ve been able to tell when something’s not right. And lately, I’ve been getting that a lot.” Her eyes dart around the room, and he frowns.

“Lots of people making deals, huh?” She’s nervous. More nervous than she should be, more than just the how-do-I-tell-him-I’m-sleeping-with-his-daughter kind of nervous. “And what about tonight?” he asks, keeping his voice soft, barely audible. “Is there something you sense tonight?”

She meets his gaze, and then her eyes drift away again. He follows closely this time, and that’s when he spots him. A man, at first glance no different from any of the other dozens of men crowding this space. He is underdressed for the occasion, wearing a tacky v-neck and dark, form-fitting jeans, and his face is narrow and scruffy. Loki would take him for a party crasher if he didn’t already know to look for something else. His wards are good, but Loki is better, and though he has a tight handle on his grace, he is easily recognizable for what he is, to say nothing of the power he carries at his back.

An angel, and what’s more than that, Gabriel can identify him. Balthazar, a seraph, once nigh on inseparable from none other than Castiel.

What an interesting coincidence.

But what to do about it?

He should probably get the hell out of dodge, tell Hel what he discovered, and let her handle the situation. That would be the smart thing to do. But he has to admit, his curiosity is piqued; Balthazar was always a loyal soldier, or so he thought, much like Castiel in that he did as he was told, trusting the orders that were given to him without question. What could possibly have happened for him to end up here, so clearly on the run and willing to deal in human souls?

If he leaves this for Hel to deal with, it’s likely she’ll kill him without asking why. She’s like that, when she feels that something of hers is threatened.

But he does not want another brother’s death on his conscience.

He sighs. “Damn it,” he says. “Alright. Nothing to worry about, sweetheart, I’ve got this one covered.” She looks uncertain, so he casts her a quick grin. “Unless there’s something else you want to talk to me about. Dying for the shovel talk, maybe?”

She turns beet red. “No! Um, that is, no thank you. Sir.”

He laughs. “That’s what I thought. Have a nice night, Sydney.”  _ And a nice life _ , he adds silently, weaving a few basic protection spells around her. She seems nice enough, and his daughter clearly favors her in more ways than one, so it can’t hurt. Then, he turns his attention to his brother.

He doesn’t bother to hide his approach, and Balthazar notices him right away, his guard going up along with his eyebrows. He gives Loki an obvious once-over, one part flirtatious and two parts sizing him up. But Loki is ancient and far more experienced at warding than he is, and so Balthazar only sees what he wants him to see: a trickster and a pagan god, nothing more and nothing less.

“Hel-lo there,” Balthazar says. British, Loki notes with amusement. “And which one are you?” The arrogance in his voice has his hackles raising, though he tries not to show it.

“Loki,” he replies. “I hear you’re the one to go to if you want a little extra… firepower.”

Balthazar’s gaze sharpens. “That I am,” he replies, “though I have to say, I didn’t expect someone like you to come knocking.”

He smirks, snapping up a lollipop, enjoying the way that makes the angel stiffen. “Is that a compliment or an insult?” he asks. “ _ I _ have to say, I didn’t expect an angel to be bargaining for human souls. Don’t have enough of those up there already?”

“There’s a war on, don’t you know,” Balthazar returns easily. “We all must do our part.” He smiles, and it’s such an obvious lie that Loki is very tempted to laugh, even as the mention of a war turns his stomach. He knew something wasn’t right up there, but to hear it spelled out like that, so matter-of-factly, makes him want to scream.  _ It’s not supposed to be like that,  _ he wants to say, wishes he could say.  _ Don’t you know any better? _

Of course, he doesn’t. Most angels don’t. There are so few left who remember when Michael was the guiding hand he was meant to be, when Raphael was the kindest of them all, before Lucifer’s light was corrupted and Heaven itself was soured.

“Interesting,” he manages, before the silence can stretch for too long. “Y’know, you’d think that it’d be a better idea  _ not _ to sell the weapons you could be using to win a war. Or maybe that’s just me, I don’t know. But you’ve got to have, what--” He gestures airily-- “at least half of Heaven’s armory with you, if not more. Oh, don’t look at me like that,” he adds, in response to Balthazar’s startled look. “I’m a pagan god, I’m great at sniffing out power. I’m just saying that, yeah, sure, human souls are powerful, but you’ve got weapons of mass destruction in there and you’re not gonna use them? Seems like poor planning to me.”

Balthazar shrugs. “Orders are orders,” he says, adopting a nonchalant air where other angels would have bristled at the insult to Heaven. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I do have some actual transactions to make.”

He makes as if to move past him, but Loki shoots out a hand and grabs him by the arm. Balthazar stops.

_ Gotcha. _

“I don’t think you’re telling me the truth,” he says, “and I get it, I’m a pagan, so why would you? But if you’re going to try to lie to the God of Lies, here’s a tip for you.” He steps into Balthazar’s personal space, leaning in closely. “Do it better,” he hisses.

Balthazar tries to shake him off to no avail. They are attracting attention now, sideways glances and murmurs as the humans try to work out what’s going on without being too overt about it. Loki couldn’t care less; this is fun, fun like he hasn’t had in months now.

“Honestly, you’re so obviously trying to lay low, it’s pathetic,” he continues. “If you were actually acting on Heaven’s orders, you wouldn’t bother trying to hide yourself. But you are. And despite that, I made you the moment I laid eyes on you, so great job there.” He smiles again, all teeth, and lets a little bit of power bleed through his eyes.

“Unhand me,” Balthazar demands.

“So here’s what I think,” he presses on. “I think you ran away. Maybe you were scared, maybe you were just tired of it, I don’t know. But you took Heaven’s armory as insurance, because you like having this much power. And now you’re going after human souls as well, because you’ve realized that by taking those weapons, you’ve put a target on your back a mile wide, and you need something to bargain with. Or to defend yourself with, if that falls through.” He tightens his grip on Balthazar’s arm. “Now, how much of that did I get right?”

Balthazar stares at him, something dark flickering behind his eyes. “Unhand me,” he repeats.

“Or what?” he asks.

The angel bares his teeth. “I’m an angel, and you’re nothing but a washed up pagan deity.” He spits out ‘pagan’ like it’s the dirtiest word imaginable. “What do you think?” And then he drops his blade into his hand and lunges, and amidst the horrified gasps and screams from the humans, Loki decides it’s about time he made an exit. After all, Hel would be ever so cross if this mess were to result in human casualties. A blink and a thought and a whisper of wings and they’re standing in Kansas, rolling fields around them midnight blue under the dark starry sky. Balthazar’s swing goes wide, his target no longer standing in front of him.

“Right here,” Loki says, and Balthazar turns, holding his blade steady. To his credit, he barely lets their new surroundings faze him.

“You can’t hope to win,” Balthazar says. “Seriously, a pagan against an angel? And that’s not even counting the resources I have at my disposal.”

He considers this, considers  _ him _ . He speaks with half confidence and half bluster and bravado, but it is easy enough to tell that underneath all of that, Balthazar is scared. He is alone on earth with stolen power at his fingertips and a target on his head, and while he puts up a good show, he clearly has no idea what he’s doing.

In Balthazar, Gabriel sees himself.

He doesn’t like it.

“What are you doing here, Balthazar?” he asks, and the angel starts at the use of his name. “What reason could you possibly have for abandoning Heaven? What is it that you want?”

Balthazar shifts, uncomfortable. “Sex, booze, money, you name it,” he says. “I want to  _ live _ . Experience free will for myself. He claims that’s what we’re fighting for, but we’re still taking marching orders like good little soldiers, even if it’s to a different tune. I’ve had enough.” He grimaces, and there is a desperation in his expression that Gabriel can identify with all too well. “And you’re getting in the way of that, so if you don’t mind.” He raises his sword, and Loki backs up a step.

“Come hang out with me then,” he he offers, ignoring Balthazar’s nonplussed stare and his own better judgement. “I’ve been kicking around this planet a long time. I can show you things you’ve never even dreamed of. Plus, with me, you’ve got assured protection from all Heaven’s angels, no soul claiming required. Satisfaction guaranteed or your money back.”

Balthazar scoffs. “First off, you’re a pagan, so no thank you,” he says, “and second of all, are you really trying to tell me that you could stand up to all of Heaven’s armies? To an archangel? Because if I’m not careful,  _ that’s _ what I’ll have after me.”

_ Oh buddy, let me tell you something. _

“Yep,” he says.

Balthazar shakes his head and lowers his blade. “Then you’re nuts,” he says, “and I’m done with this conversation.”

In an adjacent plane of existence, he spreads his wings, preparing to take flight.

Gabriel makes a decision.

“I’ve done it before,” he says. “I could do it again.”

For a moment, he lets the wards cloaking him fall away, stretching his three pairs of wings to their farthest extent. Power rushes through him, and he braces himself against being overwhelmed. It is only for a span of about three seconds, not long enough for anyone in Heaven to take notice unless they were already looking, but for Balthazar, it must be like staring into the heart of a supernova.

The moment passes. He folds himself away again. His vessel doesn’t feel right, like it’s too tight and too loose all at the same time, but it’s worth it for the look on Balthazar’s face.

“Gabriel,” he says, his voice shaky. “You’re… we  _ all _ felt your death. The choirs wouldn’t stop singing mourning songs for weeks. They say Michael cried.”

That strikes a chord in him, though he tries to pretend otherwise. He doesn’t want to think about what Michael may or may not have felt upon his untimely demise. That way lies guilty introspection, and guilty introspection never leads to anything good.

His hands are trembling.

He shrugs. “Surprise.”

“It’s a bloody mess up there! Why aren’t you doing something about it?”

There is more anger there than he was anticipating, and he wants to take Balthazar by the shoulders and shake him until he understands.  _ I can’t kill you,  _ he wants to say, wants to explain, wants to plead,  _ I can’t kill you, and I can’t watch you die. Any of you. If that makes me a coward, then so be it, but the part of me that could broke a long time ago.  _ And is broken twice-over, now, once from the first war and once from his own blade slicing through his heart.

“About the same reason as you, probably,” he says with a wry smile. Balthazar doesn’t have much ground to stand on there, after all. He draws on Loki, draws on pagan sin and nihilism and his tried and true devil-may-care attitude, trying to bring himself back in check. Though whether he is Gabriel or Loki, he can’t afford to start caring now.

Identity crises are a  _ pain _ .

“Whaddaya say?” he asks. He extends a hand, and Balthazar stares at it, angry but considering. Gabriel has offered him a way back into Heaven and they both know it; if Balthazar brought news of his continued existence to them, he would be welcomed back with open arms for the sheer value of that information. Theoretically. But that would mean giving up on everything he’s just said he wanted, so Gabriel thinks that his risk was well-calculated.

“Alright,” Balthazar says, and takes his hand. “What did you have in mind?”

Now  _ that’s _ more like it. He grins. “There’s a bunch of dicks in the world,” Loki says. “Wanna help me torment them?”

Balthazar cocks an eyebrow, as if to say,  _ Is  _ this _ what you’ve been doing? _ But the corners of his mouth twitch upward, and Loki knows he has him. “By all means,” he says, and Loki lifts his fingers to snap.

Is this what Hel intended when she asked him to deal with the situation? Maybe, maybe not. He wouldn’t put it past her; she’s manipulative on the best of days. But he can’t work up the effort to be angry. There’s excitement boiling in his veins and something that feels like hope buzzing through him for the first time since he died, and he feels like he’s just regained the sense of purpose he’s been lacking. He’ll never admit it out loud, but it’s… nice, to have a sibling by his side again.

He’ll try not to get used to it. But hey, that’s the thing about rock bottom; once you’ve hit, there’s nowhere to go but up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm actually really sad that these two didn't meet in canon. i feel like they either would've gotten along like a house on fire or grated on each other's nerves to the point of attempted murder.
> 
> Also Hel is a lesbian I'm sorry I don't make the rules (yes I do).
> 
> In other news this story has breached a thousand hits I cannot b e l i e v e
> 
> Next Chapter: Sam has struggles, but he gets some huggles. Dean is absolutely ready to fight, he just doesn't know who he needs to be fighting. (In other words, Sam and Dean under the same roof once again, it's about damn time.)
> 
> Unfortunately, due to my life being a hectic mess at the moment, I'm not going to find much opportunity to update for a few weeks. Next chapter will be August 19. Thanks for your patience!


	9. In Which the Gang is Not Quite All Here, but We're Getting Close (ft. Emotional Constipation)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope y'all like dialogue.

Sam wakes with a start, every muscle taut as a bowstring, fire flashing in front of his eyes. He scrambles for the gun under his pillow, certain he’s under attack, before remembering-- there is no gun under his pillow, he got his soul back from Hell yesterday, and he is in the home of the Antichrist, who is a young, overly-polite and only slightly odd British man. Lucifer can’t reach him here, even if his own imagination would argue to the contrary.

He takes a deep breath, in through his nose and out through his mouth, and slowly forces himself to relax, studying his surroundings. This is obviously a guest bedroom; the walls are mostly bare, though painted a gentle yellow color, and dust floats in the sunlight shining through the window. There is a nightstand and a lamp next to the bed and a dresser and mirror shoved up against the opposite wall, but otherwise, the room is empty, unused. The unmistakable smell of bacon cooking drifts through the door.

He sits up and slides out of bed. He’s still wearing the clothes he had on yesterday, with the exception of his shoes, and the angel blade is still tucked away inside his jacket. He’s grateful for it; while not the most comfortable way to sleep, the thought of anyone undressing him unnerves him. The door opens with a soft click, and he relaxes further, padding down the hallway. He hadn’t realized how worried he was about being locked in. He finds a flight of stairs and pauses at the top, hearing voices floating up from below.

“You really shouldn’t worry so,” a woman says. Probably the same one from yesterday. Pepper? That was her name, right? “I’m sure he’s alright.”

“Yes,” replies a man’s voice. Aziraphale, he thinks, “but if you haven’t heard from him in seventeen years, who knows what could have happened? Oh, really, I should have thought to ask Death while he was here. At least then I’d know.”

“You’ll find him,” Pepper says. “You will.”

Sam frowns and makes his way down the stairs, moving through the living room to stand in the doorway to the kitchen. Aziraphale and Pepper are sitting next to each other at the kitchen table, Pepper patting Aziraphale’s hand soothingly as he stares off into the distance, eyebrows knitted together in an expression of anxiety. Adam stands with his back to them, frying bacon with a deft hand. There’s already a considerable amount of cooked strips on a plate by his elbow.

Pepper is the first to notice him, her lips curving into a soft smile. “Sam,” she greets. “Good to see you up.”

This jolts Aziraphale out of whatever revery he’s in. “Oh, Sam!” he says. “I’m glad you’re awake! Are you feeling any better?” He adjusts his glasses, blinking owlishly. He looks tired, worry carving lines underneath his eyes. Somehow, he gives the impression of being far older than he was yesterday; either that, or Sam just didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary.

Considering how out of it he was, the likelihood of that is greater than he’d like to believe.

“Um,” says Sam, hesitantly pulling out a chair and taking a seat, “yes, actually.” He’s surprised to find it’s not a lie. He feels uncomfortably sore, like he’s just run two marathons, but he no longer feels like he’s on the verge of a mental breakdown. The hell memories are still there, still looming, but it’s easier to compartmentalize in the bright morning sun. As little as he wants to think about his dreams, it makes sense that sleep would help, since prior to last night his body hadn’t slept in months. “Who are you talking about?” he asks, not really wanting to elaborate on his own state of mind.

“Oh,” says Pepper, “Aziraphale doesn’t know where his demon is, and he’s working himself up about it, even though I’m sure he’s  _ fine _ .”

Sam turns a questioning look on Aziraphale, who huffs, fingers tightening around the cup he holds on the table. Probably tea. “I know he’s alright,” he says. “I know he can take care of himself. But the thing is, Crowley has this habit of doing rash things when he’s upset. He actually ran into my bookshop while it was on fire once because he thought I was in there, and I didn’t even hear about it until I coaxed him out of him  _ drunk _ almost an entire year later. Said he was embarrassed about it. Honestly.” He subsides, shaking his head and looking even more worried than before, and Sam blinks, tracking back to make sure he heard right, because  _ what? _

“I’m sorry,” he says, “did you say  _ Crowley? _ ”

Aziraphale’s gaze sharpens, picking up on Sam’s incredulous tone. “Yes,” he says, with dawning hope on his face. “Er, he likes wearing dark suits because he thinks they make him look cool and he drives an old Bentley and his eyes are golden like a snake. He is a snake, actually, the Serpent of Eden. He hisses sometimes. Have you  _ seen _ him?” He stares at Sam in expectation, but Sam has to shake his head.

“No, sorry,” he says. “The Crowley I know is a crossroads demon.” And not, he adds silently, the type of person he sees someone like Aziraphale associating with.

Aziraphale deflates. “Oh. Can’t be him, then. He hates crossroads demons. He once called them a ‘bunch of antiquated blighters who wouldn’t know an efficient way of getting a human soul if it bit them on the arse.’” He says the last part in an affected voice, raspier, less proper. “In any case, now that you’re up, we should probably talk about what’s next.”

Adam walks over and places the plate of bacon on the table, taking a seat and stretching languidly, like a cat. “Mornin’,” he says.

“Good morning,” Sam replies. Presented with the bacon, his stomach growls, and he reaches out to take a piece. “What’s next?” he asks.

“I mean, where to?” Aziraphale says. “Er, that is, assuming you’re still alright with me coming. I wouldn’t want to impose…” He trails off, looking suddenly uncertain.

“That’s fine with me.” He offers up what he hopes is a reassuring smile. It probably shouldn’t be fine with him, actually-- he only met this angel a couple of days ago, really, and he was either soulless or unconscious for most of that time-- but as far as he can tell, Aziraphale doesn’t have a deceitful bone in his body. And besides, he did get his soul back for him, so that’s a pretty big mark in his favor. “Um, I need to go see my brother, obviously, but there’s somewhere else I should probably stop by first. A friend of ours, Bobby, he knows I’m back, but I’ve been…” He frowns. “I’ve been kind of a dick to him. He deserves to know what’s been going on.”

“Bobby?” Aziraphale asks.

“Yeah, he’s basically our uncle,” Sam says, not saying,  _ And more of a father figure than Dad ever was _ , as true as it may be. “He lives in Sioux Falls, South Dakota, so… I don’t know how far that is from here, or if that makes a difference, but--”

“Bobby  _ Singer? _ ” Aziraphale asks.

Sam stops. Blinks. “You know Bobby?” he asks, disbelieving, because seriously, how much of a coincidence would that be?

“I, well, yes,” Aziraphale says, “sometimes I would loan out books to the hunting community, you know, if they really needed them. And if they swore to bring them back. And Mr. Singer always returned them promptly and in perfect condition. I was always very appreciative of that. We never met in person, but I always did have a good impression of him.” He beams. “Well, this certainly makes things easier, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Sam says, at a loss for anything else. “I guess it does.”

“Does this mean you’re leaving, then?” Pepper says. She sounds a little disappointed, and Sam looks at her apologetically.

“Sorry,” he says. “The sooner we get going, the better.” Already, he is ansty, wanting to get up and move, to go where he knows he needs to be. He needs to apologize to Bobby for the way he’s been acting, needs to explain what’s been going on, and then he needs to find Dean, to tell Dean he’s alive. The decision he made on that front while he was soulless was cold and heartless, and the guilt he feels now is driving him to distraction.

“He’s right,” Adam says unexpectedly. His eyes are distant, far away, tracking motion only he can see. “Things are happening today. It’s important that you keep moving.” He comes back into focus, locking eyes with Aziraphale, who looks anxious. “About half of Heaven would be very displeased to hear that you’re back,” he says. “You should talk to the other half. They’ll need you before this is over.”

Aziraphale takes a shuddering breath, something in Adam’s words impacting him beyond what Sam can understand. “People keep implying,” he says, and Sam is surprised by the steel in his voice, “that there is something amiss in Heaven. First Death, now you. Yet no one seems eager to tell me anything. So I’m going to ask again:  _ what _ is the situation in Heaven?” There is power and determination in equal measure backing his words; a subtle tremor runs through the floor, and Sam tries very hard not to flinch away. He doesn’t know if he succeeds, but Adam continues to lean back in his chair, as cool and unconcerned as ever.

“Seems easy enough to find out, for anyone who’s listenin’,” he says with a shrug. “I think today’s going to be a good day for findin’ out things.”

Aziraphale sighs. “If you say so,” he says, and he doesn’t sound doubtful so much as weary. He looks to Sam. “We should probably be on our way then,” he says. “That is, if you’re ready.”

Sam gulps down one last bite of bacon and nods. “I’m ready,” he says. “I guess we’re, uh… flying?”

Aziraphale smiles at him before turning to Adam and Pepper. “Thank you very much for your hospitality, both of you,” he says. “It was lovely to see you again.”

Pepper grins. “You too, Aziraphale,” she says. “I’m glad you’re back. Say hi to Crowley for me when you see him, would you?” Aziraphale nods, a little uncertainly. Adam says nothing, merely watching with an unfathomable expression on his face. He locks eyes with Sam and inclines his head, and somehow, Sam knows that he’s wishing him good luck. He’s grateful for it, of course, but he wishes he weren’t struck with the feeling that he’s going to need it.

“Does Mr. Singer still live at the same address?” Aziraphale asks, and Sam shakes himself out of his thoughts.

“Yeah, he does,” he replies, and Aziraphale nods decisively.

“Right then,” he says, “then we’re off.” He reaches out, placing a gentle hand on Sam’s shoulder. He looks at Adam and Pepper one last time, the latter still smiling and the former still staring, and then in a rush of wind, they are gone.

No matter how many times he does it, Sam doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to travel by angel airlines, to the way the ground drops out from under him, they way even gravity seems to disappear as he is surrounded by gaping nothingness. The sensation only lasts a moment, but that is more than enough time for irrational fear to rise up in him; he knows perfectly well that Aziraphale won’t drop him, but an insidious corner of his mind whispers,  _ what if? _ And it doesn’t help that whatever plane of existence the angels use to fly through, it is cold. Cold like ice, cold like death.

Cold like Lucifer.

Then, they land, and he stumbles, the ground solid but unsteady under his feet, tipping and turning. His stomach flips over in protest, and he struggles to keep the bacon down. A hand gently rubs his back in soothing circles.

“Terribly sorry about that,” Aziraphale says. “It’s been a very long time since I last took a passenger with me.”

_ No kidding, _ Sam doesn’t say. He doesn’t remember any ride with Cas being so rocky. “It’s alright,” he manages, as soon as he feels like he can speak without losing his breakfast. He takes a moment to look around; they are standing on Bobby’s front porch, the first light of dawn cresting over the horizon. He frowns at this-- wasn’t it late morning just a moment ago?-- before remembering that time zones exist. Bobby might still be asleep. Or maybe not, but it has just occurred to Sam that springing this on him might not be the best idea.

He searches through his pockets for his cell phone, hoping that he didn’t leave it in his car, wherever his car is. Still at the diner? Probably. Not that it was a great car or anything, but still. He finds his phone in his back pocket and takes it out. “It’ll be better not to surprise him,” he says in response to Aziraphale’s questioning look. “Not a whole lot we can do about that at this point, I guess, but it’s still better for him to at least be awake when we knock.” The phone rings five times before the other end is picked up.

“Hello?” Bobby says. Grouchy, but mostly cognizant.

“Hey Bobby,” he says. “It’s Sam.”

There is a beat of silence. He can hear his own breath echoed back to him, loud as thunder in the stillness of the morning. “Sam,” Bobby says, his voice flat, and he winces, because he deserves that. He hasn’t exactly been communicative lately, and Bobby has every right to be irritated.

“Yeah, it’s me,” he says lamely. “Listen, uh, some things have been happening lately, and um. Okay, long story short, I’ve been missing my soul, but I have it back now, no need to worry,” he adds quickly, “and also I’m with an angel, he helped me with the whole thing, and apparently you know him a little bit? He used to loan you books? So... I thought I’d tell you before dropping in.”

In retrospect, he probably should have planned out what he was going to say beforehand.

There is a rustling sound, accompanied by muffled cursing. “Damn it Sam,” Bobby says. “Where are you?” He sounds a little bit like he’s halfway to grabbing his keys and coming to get him himself.

“On your front porch,” he admits.

Another beat, in which absolutely nothing can be heard from the other end, and then a resounding click as Bobby hangs up. Then, only a moment later, the front door slams open and there stands Bobby, shotgun at the ready. Sam smiles sheepishly.

“Hey,” he says, and Bobby’s eyes dart back and forth from Sam to Aziraphale and back to Sam again. Aziraphale, for his part, says nothing, merely watching Bobby warily.

“Your soul?” Bobby asks, looking simultaneously incredulous and also like he’s not paid enough to deal with any of this. Which is fair.

“Yeah,” Sam says. “I can explain. Um, this is Aziraphale.” Aziraphale gives a little wave. “Can we come in?”

Bobby eyes Aziraphale, sizing him up. “He on the level?” he asks.

Sam nods. “He’s good,” he says. Aziraphale looks a little affronted at being discussed like he’s not there, but he doesn’t protest. Which is good; Sam thinks they’ll get along just fine as long as their first impressions of each other aren’t horrible. Second impressions? Does it count if it was at least seventeen years ago and more than likely over the phone?

Bobby steps aside to let them in, though he continues to watch them like a hawk, probably to make sure they don’t have any issues with the devil’s trap in the entryway. Sam’s feet guide him to the living room on instinct. It’s good to be back here; this place was about as close to a home as he got growing up, and there are as many fond memories here as there are ghosts. And there are plenty of the latter. He sits down on the couch with no small amount of relief, and after a moment of hesitation, Aziraphale perches next to him. Bobby follows behind, sitting at his desk.

“What the hell’s been going on, Sam?” he asks, and Sam has to look away, suddenly at a loss for words. How is he supposed to explain this? Guilt presses in on him, thicker than ever, because he may know intellectually that he’s not at fault but that doesn’t stop him from feeling like he is. It was still his body, after all, still his mind, even if his soul wasn’t in the building, so really, how blameless could he possibly be?

“None of that now,” Aziraphale mutters next to him. “If I may?” he looks to Bobby, who raises an eyebrow but doesn’t stop him. “The way I understand it, whoever raised Sam from Hell tried their best, I’m sure, but ultimately lacked the power or experience to remove all of him from the Cage. This led to his body functioning up here while his soul remained in the Cage for the last several months, until Death was persuaded to to go and fetch it. Not Sam’s fault--” A significant look in his direction-- “in the slightest.”

Bobby’s eyebrows have been climbing higher and higher. “Is that right?” he asks. Sam nods, and he frowns. “Your voice sounds familiar,” he says.

Aziraphale’s lips twist into a wry smile. “We’ve spoken,” he says. “It was some time ago now, but… Fell’s Books?”

Bobby stares. “Well I’ll be damned,” he says, flabbergasted. “Ezra Fell? No one could ever work out what’d happened to you. You been an angel the whole time?”

Aziraphale shrugs. There is something pained in his expression, but he covers it well enough. “Yes,” he says, “or near enough. I died, but now I’m back none the worse for it, so I suppose God has work for me yet.” He tapers off a little bit by the end, and Sam can tell that he’s feeling a bit uncomfortable. Not that he can blame him; the guy’s been back for, what, three days now? And getting the third degree from Bobby is never fun.

“I wouldn’t even have known anything was wrong if it weren’t for him,” Sam interjects. Not that he had wanted to do anything about it even then. It had taken Aziraphale forcibly knocking him out to get it fixed.

Bobby’s gaze snaps back to him, and Sam senses Aziraphale relaxing. “You’re alright now?” he asks, though Sam can hear what he’s really saying. He doesn’t quite know what to make of this yet, but he won’t hesitate to take action if anything is wrong.

“Well, I’m less sociopathic, that’s for sure,” he says, shaking his head. “I’ll be fine, Bobby.” He smiles and hopes it’s not as see-through as he feels it is. “I really need to go talk to Dean. I can’t believe I--” He cuts himself off, frustrated. “He needs to know I’m back. I don’t know what I was thinking. Is he still at Lisa’s?” This last part to Bobby, but Bobby is silent, and Sam knows he doesn’t imagine his wince. The atmosphere grows heavy. Beside him, Aziraphale turns his head, looking at something to one side.

Sam knows. Even without looking, he knows. But he he can’t make himself move; he’s frozen, his muscles locked.

“Huh,” Dean says. His voice is cold. “This makes things easier. I was just about to go looking for you.”

The tone is familiar. Lucifer was fond of it. He digs his fingernails into his palm, almost hard enough to break the skin, the pain reminding him that he is here, here in Bobby’s living room, on Bobby’s couch, here and not in the Cage. His head clears slightly, and he forces himself to turn, to look. Dean stands at the foot of the stairs; how Sam didn’t notice his approach, he doesn’t know. He holds his shoulders in a tense line, stiff and yet practically vibrating, the lines on his face set in anger. But there is hurt there too, and Sam tries to focus on that, because Lucifer never bothered to act hurt, not when wearing Dean’s face, was always callous, almost unfeeling in his anger and cruelty.

“Dean,” he greets, and he wishes his voice was stronger, less hesitant. He wishes this were less complicated, that he could run to his brother like most of him wants to. That he never went to Hell at all, that none of this was necessary. But wishes have never gotten him anything. “How much of that did you--”

“Most of it,” Dean replies. “Your  _ soul _ , Sam? Are you kidding me?” This is concern, he knows, but when Dean takes a few steps forward, he flinches. He can’t help it. This is how it usually began, and for a moment, reality slips away from him, replaced with the vast expanse of the Cage, suffocating him, and Lucifer bearing down. He blinks and it is gone again, but the damage is done; there are three pairs of eyes on him, and emotions are flicking across Dean’s face too quickly to evaluate.

“Can we talk?” Dean says, jerking his head toward the kitchen. Sam’s not actually sure he wants to be alone with Dean right now, but at the same time, he doesn’t want to do this in front of Bobby and Aziraphale. So far, Dean hasn’t even acknowledged that either of them is in the room, and Sam’s not sure he wants that to change. Aziraphale, at least, is nowhere near prepared to deal with his brother on the warpath.

“Yeah,” he says, rising from his seat. Aziraphale is practically radiating concern, but he doesn’t make a move to stop him. He walks past Dean into the kitchen, and Dean follows behind, leaning against the kitchen table.

For a moment, there is awkward silence.

“I’m sorry,” Sam says.

Dean sighs, rubbing his hand across his face. “Okay,” he breathes. “Okay. I was totally ready to find you and chew your ass out for what you pulled, but… what the hell, Sam?” He sounds more pleading now than angry. Sam relaxes a bit.

“I know,” he says. “Dean, I swear to you, I didn’t know. I didn’t… There was a total disconnect somewhere in there, and I… I knew something was off, but I didn’t care. I couldn’t care. And I didn’t… It felt natural to me, what I chose to do. Deciding not to tell you was… easy. I don’t think I was capable of realizing how wrong that was.” The more he speaks, the more he feels like none of this is coming out right, which is not good, because he needs Dean to understand, at least a little bit. He needs them to be able to work past this.

“So what, you didn’t have emotions?” Dean asks. “Just like that? Like some kind of robot?”

“Pretty much,” he replies, somewhat helplessly. “I don’t know how else to describe it to you.”

Dean breathes out heavily through his nose. There are a million questions on his face, but, miracle of miracles, he restrains himself. “Fine. Okay. You were walking around without a soul.  _ Great. _ What was that about in there, then?”

Damn it. Nevermind, Sam would very much like to continue discussing his soul and lack thereof, if that meant he didn’t have to talk about this. “What was what about?” he asks. The deflection is weak, and both of them know it.

“Don’t give me that, you know exactly what I’m talking about,” Dean says. “You flinched.”

“Oh, that. Right.” he sighs, closing his eyes. Lucifer grins at him from the back of his eyelids. “It’s not anything you did. It’s just that up until yesterday, I didn’t remember Hell at all, because my soul was still there. Now, it’s kind of like everything’s hit me all at once, and it’s…” He opens his eyes. Dean is staring at him. “I’m working on it.” Or rather, repressing it so he doesn’t have to think about it, but same difference, right? “I’ll be fine,” he is quick to add. He smiles, though he’s sure it looks more like a grimace.

Dean continues to stare. A second passes, and then another, and Sam can see the gears whirling in his head as he tries to process everything Sam has just thrown at him.

Not the reunion either of them pictured.

“Alright,” Dean says. “Alright, c’mere.” He steps forward, arms outstretched, and his intention is unmistakable. Sam meets him halfway, wrapping his arms around him, and for a moment, everything really is alright. He’s safe, he’s here, and his brother is with him. Whatever comes next, they’ll face it together. He’s eight years old again, and Dean is infallible, indestructible, and above all else, always there.

“I’m damn glad you’re back, Sammy.” Dean’s voice is choked, but Sam doesn’t comment on it.

“Me too,” he replies.

Dean pulls away just before the hug can verge into awkward territory, backing off and refusing to meet Sam’s eyes. He knows that Dean will absolutely refuse to acknowledge that the moment ever happened, but he is grateful nonetheless. It’s something normal, something grounding; for all that Dean decries ‘chick flick moments,’ he’s initiated quite a few of them, and the familiarity of it brings a smile to his lips, which Dean returns with a grin of his own.

“Okay,” he says, “so. We’re  _ talking _ about this later, you got it?” His tone brooks no room for argument, and Sam takes a moment to reflect on how much of a hypocrite Dean is, always getting on to him about his problems but refusing to even talk about his own. He blames that one on Dad’s influence. “But there is so much shit going on right now, you have no idea,” Dean continues. “I talked to Cas yesterday.”

Sam raises his eyebrows, glad that they seem to be moving on for the moment. “What, really?” That is somewhat surprising. He remembers praying to Cas several times over the past couple of months, but he never got a response. He gave up eventually, figuring that either the angel had better things to do or he just didn’t care. Though, if Cas were to answer anybody, it would make sense for it to be Dean. “What did he say?”

“Well for one thing, he’s the one who pulled you out of the Cage.” Dean frowns. “I’m sure he didn’t mean to, uh…”

“Right, right,” Sam agrees. He can’t imagine Cas knowingly brought him out… incomplete. “What else?”

A look of frustration passes across Dean’s face. “The angels are at war with each other, apparently,” he says, and Sam has to do a double-take to make sure he heard that correctly, because  _ what? _

“ _ What? _ ” a voice all but shrieks, and Sam wonders why he suddenly sounds British before he realizes that it is Aziraphale who has spoken, Aziraphale who is standing in the doorway, a red flush on his cheeks, his eyes wide and slightly wild behind his spectacles. “Sorry, don’t mean to eavesdrop, but  _ what? _ ”

Dean stiffens at his sudden entry, his fists clenching for a moment, and he looks at Sam, as if to make sure that this guy should be here, is not a threat. Sam nods, and Dean stays on guard but makes no overly threatening moves, which, now that Sam thinks about it, is probably the best possible outcome of this confrontation. He may trust Aziraphale, relatively speaking, but Dean is never so quick to open up. Which has often been for the better-- Ruby’s face flashes in his mind, making him wince-- but not, he thinks, in this case.

“Yeah, um,” Dean says, obviously discomfited. “Okay. Our friend Cas, uh, Castiel, he helped us stop the Apocalypse. But apparently, Raphael decided he wanted to do it all over again, and Cas said no, and all the rest of the angels took sides, so now they’re at war. And if Raphael wins, we’re screwed.” He scowls. “That’s about all I know. Cas isn’t big on the sharing thing. I barely managed to get that much out of him.” This is said with deep-seated irritation. Trouble in paradise, then. He doesn’t envy Cas.

Then, the severity of the situation hits him. Raphael, the last of the archangels, is trying to restart the Apocalypse. And Cas is the only thing standing in his way.

No wonder Dean is pissed. And no wonder Cas hasn’t been answering, god. It’s probably all he can do to stay alive.

Aziraphale’s face transforms into a furious scowl. “Raphael,” he mutters. “That tosser, he  _ would _ . It’s an insult, is what it is. Civil war in Heaven.” His scowl deepens further, and the soft lines on his face deepen into canyons; he looks ancient and ageless at the same time, and for the first time, Sam can picture him as a warrior of Heaven. “Castiel, did you say?” he asks, pinning Dean with his intense stare.

“Yeah,” Dean says, wary. “It’s not his fault, though, you can’t just--”

Aziraphale waves a hand. “I can tell that much,” he says, annoyed, “but Heaven labelled me a traitor and had me executed under Michael’s orders. I highly doubt Raphael is going to tell me what I want to know, and even if he would, he’s a prick.” He breaks off with a sigh. “Civil war in Heaven, honestly. I’ll be back shortly.” And then, suddenly he is gone, the sound of wingbeats and a cool breeze marking where he had been. Sam has to stop himself from lurching forward, as if that would do anything. He can’t blame the angel for leaving; he’s still reeling from the information himself, and however he feels about it, it must be a hundred times worse for Aziraphale, to come back from the dead after seventeen years only to find that his siblings are killing each other over whether or not they should end the world. But still, Aziraphale has been a stabilizing force for him over the past couple of days, and without his presence, Sam feels slightly adrift.

Dean stares at the spot where Aziraphale stood for a good minute or so before slowly turning to Sam, eyebrows raised. Sam can’t help but laugh a little. “So, that’s Aziraphale,” he says. “He’s a little…” He trails off, unable to find the right word. Aziraphale, it seems, is an angel of contradictions, affable one moment and bowling you over with intensity the next.

“No kidding,” Dean says, sounding almost impressed. He stabs a finger at him. “We,” he says, “are  _ talking _ .” But his tone is lighter, and Sam finds himself able to breathe easy.

The more time he spends with Dean, the more he is able to separate him from Lucifer. Dean’s anger comes from concern, his hurt from feeling far more than he ever lets on, and underneath all that, he is warm and fundamentally good in a way that Lucifer could never mimic. And he finds that there is a large part of him that does want to talk after all, wants to share stories and compare notes and figure out how to deal with what’s going on just like the good old days, before everything got so incredibly complicated.

Not Lucifer. He’s not ready to talk about Lucifer. Maybe he never will be. But the rest? He finds he’s not opposed.

He smiles, and to his surprise, it comes naturally to him for the first time in months. “Yeah,” he says, “okay. Let’s talk.” And they walk back into the living room, falling back into rhythm with each other as easily as breathing.

God only knows what they’ve got on their plate right now, but Sam thinks that for once, maybe things will end up alright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaand we're back. But also... not.
> 
> I would like to start by thanking you for your patience while waiting for this chapter. It means a lot. In the past few weeks, I've gotten my driver's permit, scheduled oral surgery, and started my senior year of high school. Which is promising to be a complete disaster, which brings me to my point: I really can't promise frequent updates going forward, because I'm a dumbass who thought taking four AP classes would be a good idea. Which I did last year, and it worked out fine, but somehow this year my workload has tripled, and I'm drowning just a little. And all that on top of figuring out where the hell I want to go to college is... well. A lot. Basically, I've bitten off a lot more than I can chew, and I'm suffering the consequences.
> 
> So! Here's what I'm going to do! I don't want to leave y'all hanging with super long and unannounced hiatuses like I have with other fics in the past (no I'm definitely not side-eyeing all my Hamilton fics that probably aren't ever going to be updated again, what are you talking about), so what I'm going to do is tell you at the end of each chapter exactly when I plan to update again, and then, barring unforseen circumstances, I will make that date. This does mean that there might be anywhere between a couple of weeks to a couple of months between updates, depending on what's going on in my life, but I think that's better than potentially leaving you guys hanging for six months at a time without warning.
> 
> Thank you so much for your continued support, I really couldn't do this without you!
> 
> So, here goes! 
> 
> Next Chapter, Coming September 9th, 2018: Aziraphale goes to Heaven, Raphael pulls some shady shit, and Crowley has a very bad evening while pretending very hard not to feel feelings, ft. Gabriel wanting to know wtf is going on here.


	10. In Which Everyone is a Bit of a Hot Mess, and Crowley Gets Pissed Off

Heaven is nothing like he remembers it.

Of course, knowing what he knows now, he doesn’t expect it to be. And yet, no part of him is prepared for what he finds, for the fighting and the desperation and the death that permeates this plane of existence like the smog that covers London. No one even seems to register his presence, no one stops him to demand his business, so engrossed are they in their own concerns. And Aziraphale cannot blame them; he would be too, if he were in their position. Maybe it’s a blessing in disguise then that he’s been dead for almost two decades.

He remembers how it felt, the blade cleaving through his grace as easily as a rock through water, and nearly drops out of the air before he can push the memories back. Maybe not.

At least his wings are fully restored, not the tattered messes he knows they must have burnt to. They’re a bit messy to be sure, but they always have been. Crowley often expresses exasperation at the fact, berating him for not taking as much pride in them as he ought. The demon keeps his own meticulously clean.

It must have been Crowley who found his body. He flinches away from that thought, away from all its implications. Not now. Now is not the time, though he’s not sure when it _will_ be the time, when he’ll work up the courage to confront that. To confront his death. Whenever he finds Crowley, probably, and he _will_ find Crowley. He’s made up his mind very firmly on that front. Worst comes to worst, he could summon him, no matter how much he hates that. Under the circumstances, he’s sure Crowley would forgive him.

He wonders if he knows about this war. What he thinks about it.

There doesn’t seem to be any fighting on at the moment, though the tenseness in most of the angels he passes indicates that they expect that to change at any time. He does not recognize most of them; they are younger than he, and many of them would only have been fledglings at the time of Lucifer’s fall and the subsequent incident with the apple. He never really interacted with any of them beyond what was strictly necessary; he has never been particularly good with children. He only vaguely recollects Castiel. A curious sort, he believes, always hanging on to Gabriel or Anna or someone, if he remembers correctly, but who knows how much has changed since those days? Everything else has.

In the end, Castiel is fairly easy to find. They flock to him, the angels under his command, drawn to him in a way that they seem to be unconscious of, and as Aziraphale approaches he can see why. Castiel exudes free will, practically shines with it, with the idea that he has chosen to follow his own path. Aziraphale has to stop for a moment and stare, because an angel finding free will to this extent without falling is unheard of. He has done it, to some degree, but even he likes to believe that all he does falls within his Father’s will. Castiel follows his own conscience, thoughts and ideals that he has formed himself, and it is that which drives him to fight against Raphael. Not duty, but what he thinks is _right_.

Aziraphale understands the situation a little better now. Not that he likes it, but he understands. Though, that is not the only thing he sees within Castiel. Thousands of dark, tainted human souls swirl within his grace, and while he seems to have the situation well in hand, Aziraphale would very much like to know why and how he has souls from Hell and just _what_ he’s using them for.

He advances cautiously, not wanting to interrupt. Castiel seems to be in the midst of several conversations with angels that he assumes are his lieutenants. It takes some time for them to disperse, either satisfied or tasked with something else, and it is then that Castiel notices him waiting.

“Hello,” Castiel says. He is puzzled, obviously not recognizing him. “Are you in need of assistance?”

He shrugs, and he can tell that the rather human motion takes Castiel by surprise. “I suppose that depends on your definition of help,” he replies. “I rather think it might be meant to be the other way around. My name is Aziraphale.”

Castiel rears back as if delivered a blow, and his eyes go very wide. “The Guardian of the Eastern Gate,” he says, his voice filled with awe. “But it was said that you died in battle against demons long ago.”

He clucks his tongue, unable to help himself, because of course that’s the story they gave. They couldn’t very well admit to the lower ranks that they were attempting to _start_ the Apocalypse rather than stop it, and they would have to do that if they told the truth about why he was killed. And even besides that, a dead martyr makes for better morale than an assassinated traitor. “It seems that you and I have a lot to talk about,” he says wryly. “It seems that Father believes I’ve a part to play yet, so if you wouldn’t mind explaining what exactly the… situation here is, I can see how I can help.”

He’s beginning to hate that word. _Situation_. Undermines the gravity of it all, makes it sound like they’re all just having a tiff in a grocery store parking lot.

“Yes, of course.” Castiel’s voice does not lose that undercurrent of reverence, but he seems to move past it well enough. Which is good; Aziraphale rather dislikes being put on an undeserved pedestal. “We are fighting to prevent Raphael from reforming and rebreaking the sixty-six seals and once more releasing Lucifer and Michael on the Earth.”

“I gathered that much,” he replies. He begins to fly again, flapping his wings leisurely, and Castiel matches his pace, his form and grace rippling on a wavelength no human would be able to comprehend. “The seals. The first is a Righteous Man shedding innocent blood in Hell, yes? Do we have a Righteous Man?”

“Dean Winchester,” Castiel confirms, something terribly warm in his tone, and oh, yes, he recalls now what Sam said about he and his brother breaking the first and last seals, respectively. He thinks back to the man he met moments ago. Sam’s brother. Suspicious and more than a bit cross, with much anger inside him. But a fierce protectiveness in regards to his brother as well, a goodness in his soul that no amount of darkness could blot out. Aziraphale can see it now, and he has to look at Castiel, wondering at the connection. Dean called Castiel a friend, but by the sheer emotion Castiel managed to put into the mere act of saying his name, he has to wonder if perhaps there is more than that at play.

“I see,” he says, not offering up his observations. “We’ve met, briefly, though I must say I am better acquainted with his brother. And the last seal, that would be the death of Lilith after the breaking of sixty-five previous to that, correct?”

“Yes,” Castiel answers. “Lilith is dead, but it would be no great hardship for Raphael to find another demon to attach a reforged seal to. There are many who would be eager to bring about the second Apocalypse.”

“Third,” Aziraphale corrects absently, missing the way Castiel’s gaze turns razor-sharp. “But yes, I see your point.” He smiles. “Then we’ll just have to make sure the Righteous Man stays out of Hell. And speaking of the Winchesters, you were the one who got Sam out of Hell, is that correct?”

A bit of a clumsy segue, but this issue needs to be addressed. Castiel cocks his head, the change in subject catching him off guard. “Yes, I am,” he says. “Why?”

“Ah.” Aziraphale pauses, trying to come up with a delicate way to put this. He fails, and decides to power on ahead anyway, because this is important. “Were you aware, then,” he says, “that you left his soul behind?”

Everything about Castiel freezes, wings stilling mid-flap; if it weren’t for Aziraphale reaching out to steady him, he probably would have fallen. “What?” he chokes out.

“Not aware then. Right.” Aziraphale sends out a few tentative tendrils of grace, trying to soothe him, if a tad awkwardly. He is radiating distress, and Aziraphale can’t help but want to comfort him, even if he doesn’t quite know how. He has never been particularly good at this. “There, there. No harm done in the long run, we got it back out.” Well, actually, there was rather a lot of harm done to Sam’s soul by that point, but saying so would hardly help. “I’d just recommend being a bit more careful from now on, wouldn’t you say?”

Castiel’s wings flare wide, allowing Aziraphale a good, though unintentional look at the damage that has been done to them. They are still strong, still sturdy, but there are undeniably scarred, and there are spots where they were obviously severely burned, by hellfire, no doubt. “I should have realized,” he grits out, “I should have realized something was _wrong_ \--” He cuts off, practically vibrating, and that’s when Aziraphale figures out that there’s more going on here, underneath the surface.

“Perhaps,” he says quietly, “but you tried your best, and that’s really all anyone can ask for.” More confident now, he extends more of his grace, and Castiel leans into it without seeming to realize he is doing so. It is the angelic equivalent of a hug, and Aziraphale has to wonder how long it has been since another angel touched this one in kindness. “Would you like to tell me what else is bothering you?”

“What else is--” Castiel breaks off, likely debating the merits and risks of confiding in an angel he has only just met. But his desperation wins out. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” he admits, his voice a plea. “There is no one up here I can truly trust, considering that until recently, they had all been ordered to kill me on sight. And if that’s not enough, someone has stolen most of the weapons from Heaven’s armory, and I bargained with the King of Hell for souls to increase my power and it’s _exhausting_. Tell me, is there anything about these circumstances that shouldn’t be bothering me?” He stops, fire flashing in his eyes, and he looks regretful, like he wishes he hadn’t said as much as he did. Aziraphale is grateful for it, though; it explains the presence of damned souls within him, and it gives him some insight into his mental state besides.

Sympathy floods him. Castiel is so very young. He shouldn’t have to deal with any of this.

“You’ve had all of that sitting on your chest for a very long time, haven’t you?” he asks.

“I am not currently in a vessel, so I do not have a chest,” Castiel replies. “And even if I did, there would not be anything sitting on it.” He pauses, and then makes a sound roughly corresponding to a human sigh. “That was an expression,” he says, sounding almost defeated, and Aziraphale is amused despite himself.

“At least you recognized that much,” he says.

“Many human colloquialisms continue to escape me. I am better at identifying them them now than I once was.” Castiel eyes him, as if expecting something. When Aziraphale gives him no censure, either for his admittance or his outburst, he seems to relax. “I cannot admit weakness to those under my command. They depend on me.”

“Then allow me to help you,” he says, resolute. “I can help you look for the weapons. They must be somewhere, if not in Heaven, then on Earth.” He thinks of one sword in particular, the wielding of which once came as easily to him as flying. He gave it up a long time ago, but with the way things are now, perhaps it is time to take it up again. “We could ask your friends to help, the Winchesters. They seem quite capable.”

Castiel’s expression shutters. “I have no inclination toward involving Dean more than he already is,” he says, somewhat gruffly, and this only serves to heighten Aziraphale’s suspicion; where he said the Winchesters, Castiel narrowed it down to Dean, and while he certainly doesn’t think that Castiel doesn’t care about Sam, it is clear enough where his priorities lie.

“Dean seems like a very brave man,” he says softly. “I think he’ll want to help in any way he can, don’t you?” His face brightens as a thought occurs to him. “I might even be able to track down Gabriel,” he says. “I don’t know if I can convince him to help, but he might be persuaded.”

He does not expect Castiel to falter, but at his words, his wingbeats stutter. “Gabriel is dead,” he says, something like melancholy in his voice. “Lucifer killed him.”

A beat. He hears the words, but he doesn’t quite understand them.

And then--

Oh.

The meaning hits, and a yawning chasm of grief opens in him, made all the more potent for the fact that he hadn’t anticipated it. For all his vices, Gabriel was always practical, always careful, always _powerful_. And always so determined that he would never go home, would never raise a sword against a sibling again. For him to fall against Lucifer is both ironic and tragic, but he hopes it at least means that he found something worth fighting for.

That is little comfort, though, if it means that he is dead. And if Gabriel is gone, who else did the Apocalypse claim?

“Oh,” he says, and knows he fails utterly at masking his sorrow. “Well. Anyone else I should know about?” This comes out slightly more bitter than he intended, but he thinks he can be excused.

Castiel winces a bit, but seems to understand. “In terms of angels you might have known,” he begins, “Anna. Uriel, though he turned traitor. Zachariah, though there isn’t anyone who really misses him.”

“Odious little toad,” Aziraphale mutters. It’s probably bad form to celebrate the death of any of his siblings, and to hear that Anna is gone is a sore blow, but there was always something about Zachariah that oozed poisonous insincerity. He can’t say his death is not somewhat relieving. “Thank you for telling me,” he says, gathering himself. “We really have our work cut out for us, don’t we?”

Castiel glares at him, though with no heat behind the expression. “There is much to do, yes,” he says, and Aziraphale does not like the note of hopelessness in his voice.

“Don’t worry so much,” he says with a smile. “We will defeat Raphael. Any other outcome would be unacceptable, so we will prevent it from happening.” Castiel looks doubtful, but he does not protest. Oh well. He’ll have plenty of time to convince him. “Now, how about showing me around your forces?”

 

* * *

 

 

For all that he told Castiel that he would keep an eye out for his horrifically misplaced armory-- and he’s still at a complete loss as to how he let that happen in the first place-- he hadn’t really expected to find anything. After all, if someone had the guts to steal Heaven’s most powerful weapons out from under their noses, surely that same person would be able to keep themselves hidden. It’s what Crowley would do: lie low until the whole thing blew over, make plans, and try not to be too conspicuous while enacting them. Start small, work his way up to the big stuff. That’s what anyone with any _sense_ would do, if they wanted to keep a hold of their ill-gotten gains.

So, when he goes looking and immediately comes across about a hundred rumors circulating, he is disappointed. The thief is, evidently, an idiot; the underground is rife with whispers and speculation, talk of an angel willing to peddle ancient weapons of cosmic power in exchange for human souls. It’s boring, really, and terribly predictable. Honestly, if they can’t be smarter about the whole thing, they don’t deserve the weapons in the first place.

It’s easy enough to track them down, to follow the rumors and gossip all across the country, from one curious incident to another, the most recent being swords drawn at an upper-class schmoozing fest last night. It seems that the thief has run afoul of interference from On High, and whether they made it out alive or not, Crowley doesn’t know. But all of his sources indicate that they will be found here, tonight, and it is not doubt that makes him hesitate just outside the doors, but rather lingering sentiment he wishes more than anything that he could be rid of.

He stands in front of a Ritz Carlton.

Not _the_ Ritz Carlton, of course, not the one he used to frequent so long ago, but it’s the same branding, just similar enough to give him pause. He scowls at it, his hands jammed firmly in his pockets. Atlanta traffic zips past behind him, honking horns and rumbling engines and crowds coming from the Fox. He should walk in, he knows, should not be letting himself be affected like this, but even the mere act of being here is dredging up old memories, memories he thought he left far behind him.

It’s a weakness, and not one he likes to acknowledge.

“Damn it,” he mutters. “The things I’m doing for you, Castiel. You’d better appreciate it.” He won’t, he knows; that particular angel regards him as lesser than the dirt underneath his shoes. Even should he succeed, he will receive no thanks. Not that he particularly wants them; he would much rather fantasize about taking him down a peg or two once this is over, as soon as he’s not his best chance of taking a shot at Raphael. He’d look nice with a sword in his gut. Maybe in front of Dean Winchester, just to see the look on his face.

He could never follow through with that. Castiel reminds him too much of the other. It’s still nice to fantasize, but a fantasy all it will ever be, and now is not the time besides. He steels himself and enters.

The layout of the restaurant is different from the one in London, but it’s still familiar enough to make him stop for a moment, stop and take it in. The low hum of conversation, the clinking of glasses and silverware, the smell of good food and better alcohol. He fits right in here, even now, after all these years. Even if he weren’t making sure to go unnoticed by the humans, he wouldn’t be stopped; to their eyes he is merely a nicely dressed, middle-aged white man, a demographic which makes up half the patrons here. As it is, though, the eyes of waiters and diners slide off him like water off ducks, like he’s not even there at all.

To their eyes, he is not. He has never been fond of being ignored, but subtlety pays off in the long run, a lesson he learned the hard way.

He finds his erstwhile thief without difficulty, sitting in a secluded booth near the back. An angel, as he thought, scruffy and overall entirely unimpressive. This is the type of angel who wouldn’t even be a blip on his radar if it weren’t for the power they are so poorly concealing. He slips into the seat across from them, clasping his hands together and preparing his most convincing smile.

“That seat’s taken,” the angel says without looking up, and Crowley feels his smile drop. Dimly, he notes that there is a second plate of food on the table, no doubt belonging to whatever poor sad sap the angel is trying to con, but that doesn’t matter to him. What inspires this sudden burst of irritation is the dismissal in the angel’s voice and bearing, the apathy that suggests that no matter who Crowley is or what he’s here for, the angel couldn’t care less.

He has not clawed his way to the top, has not sacrificed anything and everything he has, to be ignored, dismissed like an errant child by this two-bit angel trumped up on stolen power.

“Yes, it is,” he says, and the words emerge biting. He struggles to keep himself under control; he can’t afford to come out swinging right out of the gate, not if he wants to succeed. “The name’s Crowley.” He does not extend a hand, but this proclamation gets the angel’s attention at least. They-- he? They’re using a male vessel, at least-- look up, interest flashing in their eyes.

“The King of Hell,” the angel says. “To what do I owe the… pleasure?”

Does he think he’s being subtle? He’s not. Not at all. “I’m sure someone as smart as you can work that out for yourself,” he says, glancing at the food right in front of him. Fish of some kind, coated in so much honey glaze that it’s nauseating. “That’s quite a lot of firepower you’re packing there.”

The angel smirks, trying and completely failing to give an impression of being enigmatic, cool, collected. He looks idiotic, like a kid trying on their father’s clothes. “And what of it?” he asks, and Crowley barely resists the urge to roll his eyes.

Is _that_ how this is going to go? Fine.

“Let me cut to the chase,” he says, leaning forward. “You’re a deserter, doomed no matter what team you play for. Raphael’s going to have your head no matter what you do, and if you’re on Castiel’s side, well. You’ve probably consigned him to a slow and painful death with this little stunt, but hey, all’s fair in love and war. You know what you want and you go after it. I can respect that.” He shrugs. “Hang the consequences to anyone else, right?” He’s not really sure what angle he’s trying to take here, playing it a bit by ear, but honestly, it doesn’t matter as long as he gets results, and there’s a number of outcomes that he would accept. He doesn’t need the weapons right this second; even just learning the angel’s name would be a victory, as he could take it to Castiel and let him deal with the whole mess. Less work for him.

It provokes a reaction, though; the angel’s shoulders square, tensing. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he says, and he does a good job of keeping his voice steady, Crowley will give him that. “Castiel will be fine.” He scoffs. “And _I_ don’t make deals with demons.” The unspoken message is obvious: _leave, or I’ll make you._

How quaint. This angel clearly has very little experience negotiating with someone smarter than him. He got a lot of information out of those three sentences alone. For one: the angel supports Castiel, continues to do so at least nominally even after running. For another: he finds the thought of dealing with demon reprehensible, despite the fact that what he has been doing amounts to basically the same thing.

So. Not only is this angel stupid, he’s a hypocrite. He can use that.

He smiles, like razor sharp barbed wire, the kind of smile that is not a smile at all. “How fascinating,” he says, “considering just what you’ve been doing lately. And don’t you know, I don’t think Castiel shares your views on that.”

The angel stiffens. Bingo.

“He made a deal with me just a few days ago, in fact,” he continues, enjoying himself now. “It was so obvious that he didn’t want to, of course, but he was just so desperate. So tired. Losing so badly. An easy mark, all things considered.” He pauses. “I wonder whose fault that is?”

The angel’s hand clenches around his fork, murder rising in his eyes. He looks like he wants nothing more than to smite Crowley on the spot. “You lie,” he says, his voice ringing with heavenly power. All noise in the restaurant ceases for a fraction of a second before resuming, the patrons certain something has happened but unaware of exactly what. Crowley raises an eyebrow.

“Two hundred thousand human souls,” he says, enunciating each word clearly, “in exchange for Raphael’s defeat. I would so _love_ to send a few weapons of power his way as well. Anything for the cause, you know, since it seems that I’m a better ally than _some_ people,” he adds, saccharine sweet, and he’s not sure when he decided that antagonizing the angel would be the best way to go about this, but that seems to do the trick. The angel slams his fork down onto his plate, the air crackling with ozone.

“You lie,” he insists again, and Crowley prepares to dodge a smiting and potentially swipe a weapon or two while the angel is distracted by anger, and then--

footsteps, and--

“That’s definitely _my_ seat--”

in an all-too familiar voice, and Crowley needs to leave, needs to get out of there, forget about this obnoxious angel, forget about the weapons, forget about Castiel and his stupid war, he needs to go; _why_ didn’t he do more reconnaissance before he jumped into this like an _amateur_ \--

He makes eye-contact instead. Stupid, stupid, _stupid_ , why wasn’t he _paying attention_ \--

And it is, it’s him, no matter the impossibility, it is Gabriel standing there, Gabriel, who he has not seen once in seventeen years and has absolutely no desire to see right now. If he leaves this instant, teleports out and away, his cover will be safe, will hold up to a split second of scrutiny. But it is already too late, he has considered it too long; his wards are very good, but they were never meant to stand up to an archangel. Crowley can see the moment realization hits, the moment he looks past the veneer of a normal, if powerful demon and into something else.

Gabriel’s smile drops like the guillotine on Marie Antoinette's neck.

“Crowley?” he demands, nothing but pure incredulity in his voice.

The bastard’s supposed to be _dead_ . Everyone and their bloody mother felt _that_. Like a bloody supernova, it was, the death of an archangel. He’d had to work pretty hard to convince himself he didn’t care.

“Gabriel,” he greets, struggling for some semblance of composure. Damn him and his damnable overconfidence for getting himself into this mess. “You’re looking… alive.”

There’s no way out of this. Not that he can see. His cover’s been blown so open that it’s not even on the book anymore, his pages free for anyone to read.

_Fuck._

Gabriel laughs, looking nothing short of delighted, the utter bastard. “Speak for yourself, you son of a bitch!” he exclaims, sliding into the booth right next to him, pulling the food-- his food, of course it’s his food, the honey should have been his first clue-- closer to him. “Ease off on the smiting, Balthazar, Crowley and I go way back.”

Balthazar. So that’s his name. He takes note of it. The angel in question has done a complete one-eighty, from furious to confused, his eyes darting back and forth between the the two of them; he’s certain his own discomfort is obvious, while Gabriel is pleased as punch. He’d laugh at the angel’s bewilderment if this situation weren’t so ruinous.

“Way back?” Balthazar questions, looking like he’s about a second away from making a break for it.

“Oh yeah,” Gabriel replies. “ _Way_ back.” He shoots Crowley a look that he pointedly refuses to meet. “Y’know, it’s kinda funny, I really thought he was dead.”

This is a complete disaster. While he’s at least somewhat grateful the archangel isn’t spilling his entire past on the floor for everyone to see, he also definitely does not want to have this conversation. He’s never thought he he would have to, has always thought he burned his bridges so thoroughly that it looked like they were never there in the first place. Or at least, that was his plan.

If anyone was going to catch him out, though, he supposes he shouldn’t be surprised it was Gabriel. The archangel, or pagan god, or whatever the fuck he wanted to call himself, has always been annoyingly persistent. As soon as he discovered their presence in London, and as soon as he was assured that they weren’t going to rat him out to Heaven, he kept coming by. Aziraphale never discouraged it, as annoyed as he’d sometimes get, claiming the archangel was lonely, and Crowley never really minded, as soon as he got over his instinctive fear of one of the most powerful holy beings in existence. Gabriel was good for a laugh, at least, and Aziraphale always said--

And that’s what it all comes down to, isn’t it? Aziraphale. He’s spent the last seventeen years doing whatever it took to reach the top of the ladder, very purposefully not thinking about that angel or what he would think of him now. And it’s worked-- here he is, King of Hell, the big cheese, the keys to the kingdom in his hand, in a perfect position to do whatever he wants, whatever he deems necessary. Without regret. And now here _they_ are, one angel he knows and another he doesn’t care to know, dredging up a past he wanted to keep buried.

Part of him wants to run. Another part of him wants to kill them both.

Gabriel doesn’t _get it_ , doesn’t understand how much everything has changed, is sitting next to him like they’re just having another night on the town. Just like the good ol’ days. Relaxed and smug and confident, like everything is just the same and Aziraphale isn’t fucking _dead_ , and Crowley wants to see him _hurt_ for it. For daring to pretend that everything’s alright, for daring to assume that he is the same as he was, for having the _gall_ to assume that he is not _dangerous_.

“That was the point,” he says, not bothering to hide his fury. A flicker in Gabriel’s eyes is the only indication that he is taken aback. “It was that or end up actually dead, and I knew which one I preferred.”

Gabriel watches him, absorbing everything he didn’t see at first glance. The joviality is gone, and while he has a smirk firmly in place, Crowley can tell easily enough that he has him on shaky ground. Uncertain. “Alright,” he says slowly, “I can see that. I thought the name was a coincidence, but… you’re the King of Hell, aren’t you?” He sounds both impressed and shocked, and Crowley supposes he has a right to be. The demon that Gabriel knew would never have been capable of such a thing, even if he had wanted it.

The Crowley of today is a far cry from the Crowley of then, though. Gabriel’s going to have to adjust quickly if he wants to keep up.

“That I am, darling,” he says, falling back on sarcasm. He wishes he had a wine glass to swirl, to complete the image. This is a role he plays well. “I was just having a chat with Balthazar here--” A gratifying flinch as the angel realizes he knows his name-- “about those weapons he’s stolen.”

Gabriel raises an eyebrow, his face an inscrutable mask. “What could you possibly want with those?” he asks. There is a wariness in his voice now, one that says he is beginning to understand just who he is dealing with. Not what he expected, not what he is accustomed to, and certainly not a friend. Good.

“What wouldn’t I want with them?” Crowley returns, smirking. The tables have turned now; he has the conversation back under his control, and it is Gabriel who is uncomfortable. “You should be more careful. If I can track you down, so could Raphael, even if he wouldn’t be caught dead near my sources.”

Gabriel straightens. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that was concern. You don’t want that?” he asks. He sounds like he’s asking for clarification more than anything else, but it still causes his temper to flare, even ignoring the first part.

“Of course I don’t,” he snaps. “You think I want a bloody third apocalypse? The first two were more than enough. Not to mention that if Raphael wins, I’m toast. What more do you want from me?” He breathes out sharply, meeting Gabriel’s gaze head on. “I’ve been dealing with Castiel,” he says. “Not my best idea, apparently, since it landed me next to you two idiots, but he could make use of those weapons.” He smiles thinly. “And the more I help him, the less likely he is to try and kill me after it’s all said and done.”

Gabriel manages to look contemplative and vaguely alarmed at the same time. But it is not he who speaks. “So we’re all on the same side here?” Balthazar says, not bothering to hide his disbelief, his contempt. “You really expect us to believe that?”

He laughs, short and bitter and sharp. “Oh, you wish,” he says. “I’m on my side, darling, no one else’s. Yours and mine just happen to coincide for the moment, that’s all.” He leans back in his seat, feigning nonchalance. “I don’t take _sides_ with angels.”

“So what about Aziraphale--” As soon as the name leaves his mouth, Gabriel cuts himself off, seeming to realize his mistake, but the damage has been done. He feels something boil inside him, something snap and crackle and lash out.

That name does not belong in Gabriel’s mouth. Not anymore. Not when the archangel was off being piss-drunk and feeling sorry for himself while the one person Crowley ever really gave a damn about was being _murdered._

For a moment, the entire building shuts off. The lights, the air conditioning, the televisions and radios. The elevators dip and tremble on their cables. A tremor runs through the ground, shaking the walls and floor and windows, rattling the tabletops and setting the hanging light fixtures to swaying. There is a beat, and then someone screams, and it is chaos from there, panicked babble and hurried footsteps even after everything turns back on again. It is easy to feed their fear, dip into their heads and provoke hysteria in even the most stalwart of humans. It is not long before their booth is the only oasis of calm in the room, possibly in the entire building.

“It may have escaped your attention,” he says, the bite in his words the only outward indication of the seething mass of anger he masks. He has no need for a display of rage; his influence speaks for itself. He does not raise his voice over the din, but he knows that Gabriel hears him all the same, “but Aziraphale is dead. Has been for a long time. I didn’t see you there to protect him, so I really don’t think you have a right to comment. On that or on anything else.” With little more than a thought, he is out of the booth, standing at the end of the table. “You claim to be on Castiel’s side, but here you are, doing what you do best. Hiding,” he sneers. “Either you go help fix this mess, which you helped make, I might add--” He jabs a finger at Balthazar-- “or I’ll. Well. I’m sure someone will be interested in this conversation.”

Balthazar makes as if to rise, his features twisted in outrage, but Gabriel says nothing, staring. There’s something _off_ about him, now that he thinks about it, something fake in his smirks, something tired in his eyes. Crowley finds himself wondering just how the archangel is alive.

Well, it’s certainly not his problem. He’s made his point; now it’s time to make his exit.

“Ciao,” he says, leveling both of them one last glare. Then, he turns and walks away, walks rather than teleports, daring them to attack him. They do not, though their voices drift over to him as he leaves, Balthazar’s angry, demanding explanations, and Gabriel’s edged with something trying to be amusement but falling short of the mark.

Not that it matters.

Maybe he should have sided with Raphael after all. Or pretended to, at least. Would’ve put him in a prime position to betray him, to take him out. Too late for that now, though. He’s stuck with his, stuck with this shitty situation and a throne he doesn’t even really want and an identity that’s close to falling apart.

Well, it’s not like he was lying. If Gabriel doesn’t get off his arse and do something, he will, and then nobody will like the results.

Except maybe him.

What a mess.

He wishes he could let the world burn. He really does.

 

* * *

 

 

Two figures meet by the gates of a graveyard. One is tall and sturdy, the other also tall but not nearly as sturdy, lingering in the shadows as if it thinks that will hide it from the other. The dark is a good place to hide, after all, full of mystery and secrets. A good place to lurk.

The first figure, however, sees all and is not fooled. It stands with authority, with confidence and surety, and it speaks. “You are Hastur, a Duke of Hell,” it says. Its voice leaves no room for doubt; it knows it is right, its words only a formality.

The second figure, the lurking figure, Hastur, a Duke of Hell, is affronted by the other’s directness. “Yeah, that’s me,” he says, and steps forward. Moonlight slants on his pale face, revealing maggots that periodically burrow in and out of his flesh. He seems either not to notice or not to care. “You’re the one what called me ‘ere, then?”

The first figure regards him. “I do not know whether you are brave or stupid,” he muses. “Yes, I called you here. I am the archangel Raphael, rightful ruler of Heaven.”

Hastur’s eyes widen, and he looks the figure up and down. “You don’ look much like an archangel,” he points out. “Don’ feel much like one either.”

If this angers the archangel, he does not show it. “I am masking my presence so as not to draw attention to our business, Duke Hastur,” Raphael says evenly. “And we do have business, of that I can assure you.”

Hastur narrows his eyes. He is indeed far more stupid than he is brave, and even he knows that archangels are never anything but trouble for his kind. But his curiosity wins out over his meager common sense. “What’s that then?” he asks.

Raphael regards him, his dark eyes inscrutable. “I hear that you are not content with Hell’s current leadership,” he says, and that is all that is needed to set Hastur off.

“The new King’s terrible,” he growls. “No respect for tradition, none at all. No sense of style. No _fun_. And his name’s Crowley, and I hate bastards named Crowley. First there was the flash bastard, then ‘e died, but now there’s this smirky bastard and ‘e’s even worse.” He cuts off suddenly, looking to the archangel, suddenly very aware that he is ranting to a being that could kill him with a thought. A being that still has not said exactly why he is here.

“Of course, I completely understand,” Raphael says, and Hastur relaxes. “Crowley has been a thorn in my side as well. Did you know that he is aiding Castiel, trying to prevent Lucifer from walking free?”

Hastur did not know. He has no idea who this Castiel bloke is, but he hates him on principle alone, as he does all angels. “That bastard!” he exclaims.

“Quite,” Raphael says. “You seem like an intelligent demon.” Hastur nods. “I have a proposal for you. Rise up against Crowley, take the throne for yourself, and rule Hell as it was meant to be ruled. Stop his traitorous dealings.” He steps forward, staring deep into Hastur’s beady eyes. “In return, I will bestow upon you the honor of becoming the sixty-sixth seal to the Cage, the one that will ensure that your Lord walks freely upon the earth once again.”

Hastur stumbles back. Already, his mind is racing, imagining the possibilities. He would never have dared to supplant Crowley on his own, but with an archangel’s support, such a thing would be very possible. And to become the final seal! He can picture it now; being feared and revered as Lilith was, earning his Lord’s respect, earning a place as his right hand man. Ruling Hell, leaving Crowley ground into the dust. Or preferably, strung up on a rack.

Yes, that sounds very attractive. And were he any smarter, he would realize the obvious pitfall in this plan. But he is not, so he does not.

Only one thing to do, then.

He bows, deep and low. “At your service, m’lord,” he says, his tone taking on a simpering quality. Raphael nods sharply.

“I leave this in your capable hands,” he says. “Do not fail me, and the reward I have promised you will be yours.” With that, the conversation is over, and even Hastur can tell. He bows once more, backing away into the shadows, where he vanishes. The scent of sulfur lingers in the air, hot and thick, and Raphael’s blank face crumples into something strongly resembling revulsion.

This is necessary, he knows. Crowley has become a problem that must be dealt with, and he does need a new seal to break. No matter how revolting the means, both must be taken care of. There is no one else to do it, after all; Castiel, who he had hoped would see reason and join him, is leading almost half of Heaven in a pointless rebellion and will be summarily crushed, and anyone else who might have the power to do so is long dead. _God_ is dead. Anyone who thinks otherwise is a fool.

“Needs must,” Raphael murmurs. If only he didn’t sound so much like he was trying to convince himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you were wondering, Gabriel's internal monologue during that whole thing was something along the lines of, "Whatthefuckwhatthefuckwhatthefuckwhatthefuck!!!" Crowley wasn't originally going to be that extra, but everything about that scene seemed to demand a liberal use of italics and drama, so... *shrugs*
> 
> Thanks so much for your patience, you guys, and for all the lovely kudos and comments you've been giving me!
> 
> Next Chapter, Coming October 14th, 2018: in which Sam and Dean go on a hunt, and, because it's Sam and Dean, have a much harder time than they thought they were going to. Now including copious death, of more than one kind.


	11. In Which a Cult is Used as a Plot Device

“So get this,” Sam says the next morning, and Dean looks up from his book. It’s a dusty, heavy tome, full of old legends and hearsay, but he hasn’t found anything useful yet. No hint of anything that could kill an archangel. His eyes are starting to burn.

“You got something?” he asks, taking the opportunity to surreptitiously study his brother. His eyes are slightly bloodshot, and there are deep bags underneath them; it’s obvious enough that he didn’t sleep well last night. He wishes he could be surprised, but he didn’t either after he first got back, and not for a long time afterward. He didn’t hear Sam have any nightmares, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. Some things can only be suffered in silence.

He should keep a closer eye out, though, because he knows Sam is hurting. His thoughts drift back to yesterday, as they have so many times already, to seeing Sam for the first time in months, for the first time since he learned Sam was alive. He kept a calm exterior, but on the inside he was a mess of emotions, relief and joy and anger all rolling through him at once. He spoke with more anger than he intended, but he didn’t think much of it, because it came from his fear and his worry, his reaction to what he was hearing-- because Sam was missing his soul? What the fuck did that even mean?

But then Sam flinched. Away from him. Like he thought he was going to hurt him.

His heart has never plunged so far into his shoes.

After that, it’s a bit of a blur. He demanded answers, and he got them, to some extent, though it was hard to focus on them rather than his mounting horror, the horror he tried very hard to hide from Sam because he knew his brother would interpret it as being directed at him instead of at what was done to him. He tried to keep all his emotions to himself, in fact, except for that moment when he hugged him, when he let his relief at seeing him overwhelm him, because that actually seemed to help, seemed to ground Sam in reality just a little more firmly, seemed to encourage him to open up.

Though, Dean would have to be stupid to think Sam’s told him everything. He was willing enough to talk about what he did while he was soulless, but when asked about Hell, he shut down. He’d be a hypocrite if he blamed him for that.

“Dean?”

He jerks back into the present. Sam is looking at him expectantly.

Oops.

“Sorry,” he says, “what?”

Sam shoots him a look that says he knows exactly what he was doing and he doesn’t appreciate it. “I said,” he says, “no, I didn’t, but I think I found us a case. Just a few hours south of here, actually, there’s this town where people have been disappearing on the same date for the past five years. I think it might be worth checking out.”

For a moment, he can’t speak. “So that’s it then?” he asks. “Cas is out there fighting for his life and we’re just going to go on hunts like nothing’s wrong?”

Sam frowns. “I know, Dean, believe me, I know,” he says, “but I can’t think of anything else to do. The only thing we know can kill an archangel is an archangel blade, and I’m honestly not betting on us finding anything else. I mean, you and Bobby haven’t found anything, have you?”

He glances down at the book. The words swim before his eyes. “No,” he admits.

“It might be a good idea,” Bobby speaks up. He is sitting at his desk, two books open in front of him as he checks one against the other. Dean shoots him a look of betrayal, to which he rolls his eyes. “It’d be good for you two to get used to working together again. I can hold down the fort just fine.” He gestures to the books in front of him, locking eyes with Dean, and Dean suddenly realizes what he’s getting at. Because he’s right, they should get used to each other again, but more than that, Sam needs a way to get his head back on straight, and right now, it isn’t looking like research is going to cut it.

Sam needs normalcy. He should have realized that before. And if getting back into hunting is what will give it to him, then that’s what they’ll do.

Bobby nods at him, seeing that his message has hit home. “I wish Fell had stuck around,” he grumbles, eyes falling back on his books. “That guy’s got books that ain’t seen the light of day in centuries.”

“I’m sure he’ll be back,” Sam says. His eyes dart back and forth between Dean and Bobby, his expression saying that he’s at least somewhat aware of their unspoken exchange and he doesn’t like it.

That’s another thing Dean needs to ask him about: his new best friend. Sure, the guy helped him with the whole soul thing or whatever, and sure he didn’t give off super dangerous vibes in the five seconds he was in the same room as him, but it’s weird that Sam seems to trust him so much so soon, like they don’t know that a vast majority of angels are shifty assholes. Obviously, Sam likes him, and Dean really hopes for his sake that this guy turns out to be genuine, but. He can’t help but draw a few uncomfortable parallels between him and Ruby.

It’s not that he doesn’t trust Sam to make his own friends, but. Well. He kinda doesn’t.

“Alright,” he says, and Sam’s gaze lands on him. He shrugs. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe it would be good for us.” He closes his book with a bang. “If I have to look at this one anymore, I’ll go insane. You said disappearances?”

Sam nods, his face relaxing now that he’s back in his element. Why didn’t he notice how tense he was? “Yeah, five of them, all exactly a year apart.”

“Sounds like our kind of thing,” he agrees. “You thinkin’ ghost?”

“I’m thinking ghost,” Sam confirms. “Want to check it out?”

Dean grins, because this? This is familiar. This feels right. This is what he’s missed these past few months, holed up at Lisa’s, living a life that should have been everything he ever wanted, but still longing for the open road. He only wishes he didn’t have to feel guilty about it, that he doesn’t somehow feel like he’s abandoning Cas. He promised him he’d look for something to kill Raphael, and he intends to keep that promise. Right now, going off on a hunt feels too much like a betrayal.

He tries to put the thought out of his mind, because he knows that Cas doesn’t see it that way, that Cas doesn’t even want him involved at all. But it remains, lurking in the corners, filling him with unease.

Once a decision is made, Sam is eager to get moving, and Dean doesn’t really mind. They go through all the steps; they check their arsenal, load up anything else they think they might need, and say goodbye to Bobby. Dean extracts a promise from him to call as soon as he finds anything, but he can tell that Bobby is doubtful at the prospect.

Finally, after what seems like both forever and no time at all, they are both in the Impala, him in the driver’s seat and Sam beside him. He turns the key in the ignition, and the engine rumbles to life. AC/DC blasts out of the radio, and Sam grimaces, such a familiar expression that Dean can’t help but smile, not only at the face but at the sight of Sam sitting in the passenger seat, there, real, alive. Only a couple of days ago, he thought he’d never get to have this again.

After a moment, Sam smiles back.

 

* * *

 

 

They’re an hour out of Sioux Falls when Sam says, “I know what you two are doing, you know.”

He glances over. Though his voice is flat, Sam doesn’t seem particularly mad. Amused, if anything. “Yeah?” he asks.

Sam huffs out a laugh. “Yeah,” he says. “You’re not subtle.” He pauses, drumming his fingers on his leg absentmindedly. “I appreciate it, but I’m not made of glass, Dean. I’m going to be fine.” He sounds exasperated, maybe a little irritated, but not angry, not yet. Which is good, because when Sam gets angry, well and truly angry, he pushes people away, and that’s the last thing he needs to be doing right now.

Of course, he’d be a hypocrite for commenting. He’s not exactly the poster child for sharing and caring.

“I know that,” he agrees. “But you can’t blame us for being worried about you, man.”

Sam sighs. “I know. I don’t.”

Dean nods. “And you know you can talk to me about it, right?” he checks. “We’re here for you, whatever you need.”

“Yeah,” Sam says, “yeah, I just--” He breaks off, a look of frustration passing across his face. “It’s not that I don’t want to talk, I just really--” He stops again, and Dean glances over. His eyes are screwed shut, his hands clenched so tightly into fists that they tremble. He doesn’t appear to be breathing.

“Hey,” Dean calls, trying to keep the panic out of his voice, “hey, you need me to pull over? Sam?”

Sam sucks in a shallow breath. “No,” he gasps, “no, I’m, I’m good, just give me a--” He shakes his head, and Dean cautiously reaches out, his hand hovering just above Sam’s shoulder. Then, Sam’s eyes snap open, locking on his, and for a moment, they are filled with terror. Just for a second or two, but it’s enough to make him jerk his hand back, as if scalded. Sam flinches at the sudden movement, but then clarity filters back in, and his eyes go wide as he takes in the stricken expression Dean knows he couldn’t keep from his face

“Sorry,” he says, “I didn’t mean…” he winces, turning away, staring at the road ahead of them. “Sorry,” he repeats. “It’s not you, it’s just… I’m not ready to deal with this right now, I can’t. He--” He takes a deep breath. “I know I’m going to have to, but. Not right now.”

He can’t be hurt when faced with that. Sam is trying, he knows, and that’s all he can ask for. He can’t push him too hard on this, even though every fiber of his being is screaming to know exactly what Lucifer did to him, is calling for blood and demanding that he march down to the Cage and put a bullet between the Devil’s eyes, as much good as that would do. He wants to know why Sam keeps flinching away from him, and what he needs to do to fix it. But if Sam isn’t ready to talk about it, then Sam isn’t ready to talk about it, and pressing for answers that he’s not ready to give will only make things worse.

He hates it. But it’s the best thing he can do.

“Alright,” he says. “Do you want me to turn this car around?” Because if Sam’s not feeling up to this hunt, that’s what he’ll do. He’s not risking his brother getting hurt because of this.

“What? No,” Sam says. “No, Dean, I’m good, I promise. I’ll be fine.” Dean eyes him doubtfully, but he seems sincere, if a little affronted at the suggestion. He almost wants to turn around anyway, but that’ll make him pissy for days, which is the last thing that needs to happen right now.

“Alright,” he repeats. “You know I’m here for you, right?”

Sam offers him a smile. It’s shaky, but it’s there, so he’ll count that as a victory.

“Cool,” he says, and decides it’s about time for a subject change. “So, what’s the deal with your new friend?”

Sam blinks. “Aziraphale?” he asks.

He nods. “Yeah, him. Unless you’ve got other new friends you haven’t told me about. What’s with him? Where’s you pick him up?” Because it’s weird that they haven’t heard of him before now, right? Where was he during the Apocalypse?

“Right,” Sam says, “so, from what he’s told me, there was another Apocalypse, in 1990. Apparently. And he and a few others helped stop it, so it failed. But Heaven didn’t like that, so they killed him. The next thing he knew, he was by the side of the road in California, seventeen years later.”

“Holy shit.” That’s… a lot. “So, what, God resurrected him?”

“As far as I can figure,” Sam says. “And that’s when I ran into him. I told you the rest.” Right. Death. And the Antichrist. Kind of unbelievable, but then, for them that’s kind of the norm. Sam stares off into the distance, his eyes going unfocused. “You want to know why I trust him, right?” he continues. “I’m not actually sure. I know I shouldn’t, even if he did help me, but…” He shrugs. “He said he’s been on Earth since the very beginning. He acts more human than any angel I’ve ever met, and that includes Cas. Maybe it’s that.” He frowns, considering. Dean bites back the words on the tip of his tongue, even though none of that was super reassuring.

A few minutes pass in silence.

“You wanna know another weird thing?” Sam asks. Dean glances over, eyebrows raised. “Apparently, just like Heaven sent him to be down on Earth, Hell sent a demon to counteract him. And they became  _ friends _ , or… something. And that’s not even the weird part,” he continues, preempting Dean’s instinctive  _ what the hell? _ “You know what the demon’s name was?”

“No, but I bet you’re about to tell me.”

Sam laughs. “ _ Crowley _ ,” he says, and Dean does a double-take.

“Are you fucking with me?” he demands.

Sam laughs. It’s genuine, relieving to hear, and it does a good job of disarming Dean’s fuse. “I know, right?” he says. “That’s pretty much what I thought. He said that he couldn’t be the same as the Crowley we know, since apparently  _ his _ Crowley hates crossroads demons or something like that. And I can’t imagine him being friends with our Crowley anyway. But isn’t that a weird coincidence?”

He tries to picture Crowley getting along with any angel without the angel stabbing him in the face. He fails completely, though the image of Crowley getting stabbed in the face is pretty satisfying. He makes a face. “Okay, first of all, never call Crowley  _ our _ Crowley again, that’s too fucking weird,” he says. “And yeah, that’s pretty damn bizarre.” He supposes he can sort of see an angel being friends with a demon,  _ if _ they knew each other for thousands of years and  _ if _ there was some sort of mutual stockholm syndrome going on. Maybe. But the name thing… it really is a weird coincidence; there’s not any other way to describe it. What are the odds of that?

Sam nods. “He was worried,” he says softly. “Aziraphale, I mean. Apparently he went to visit and his… the demon was missing.” He pauses. “He seemed to really care about him.”

“Well, there’s not really anything we can do about it,” Dean says, and he knows it comes out stilted, gruff and awkward, but that’s only because he doesn’t really want to touch this subject with a ten-foot pole. Aziraphale hasn’t given him any reason to distrust him, other than the fact that he’s an angel, and now this friendship with a demon, and he doesn’t think Sam would take well to him denouncing him to his face. But what else is he supposed to do? Sympathize about a demon being missing? He can’t bring himself to do that.

Sam sighs, settling back in his seat. “I’m not saying it’s a good thing,” he murmurs, “or that I think the demon must be good, or anything like that. I’d just like to know more.” He crosses his arms and closes his eyes. “Empathy,” he says, so quietly that Dean has to strain to hear him. “That’s why I trust him. He has empathy.”

And really, what is Dean supposed to say to that?

 

* * *

 

 

It’s not a ghost.

It’s not a ghost because of course it’s not, because when have their lives ever been that simple?

They hit the town just before two in the afternoon, a small place called Carterville, population less than a thousand. Its so-called “main street” is no bigger or wider than any other street, and what’s more than that, it seems to be one of the only streets. They find curbside parking next to a tiny, run-down diner, get grub served by a dead-eyed waitress, and set to work. They pose as FBI agents, the standard deal, but while this case seems like every other small-town case they’ve ever taken, Dean feels uneasiness prickle at his spine. Maybe it’s the deadness of the town, the way there’s almost no traffic despite it being the middle of the day, no children running around despite the summer heat. Maybe it’s the way the diner only has one other patron, an old man sitting alone at a table near the back, an untouched cup of coffee in front of him, a gleam in his clouded eyes that raises the hair on the back of Dean’s neck.

They try talking to their waitress first. This usually works-- waitresses hear everything-- and Dean flashes her his most winning smile.

“Hi, I’m Agent Grayson, and this is Agent Todd,” he says. “We’re here investigating the disappearances that have happened over the past five years. Have you heard anything about that?”

Five years. Five disappearances. Five men, all between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-four, all local. Even going on that alone, their ghost theory sounds good. Ghosts love a good pattern.

Instead of responding to Dean’s charm, the waitress regards him with a flat stare. “No,” she says, and takes away their empty plates.

He blinks, taken aback, and exchanges glances with Sam. “Any information at all would be helpful,” Sam calls after her retreating back.

She slams the plates on the counter with more force than is necessary. “I don’t know nothin’,” she says, “and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll stop askin’ questions.” She vanishes into the kitchen, leaving them to stare after her, dumbfounded.

“Um,” Sam says, “okay. That was weird, right?”

“Definitely weird,” he agrees. That was a lot more open hostility than he usually gets. It’s clear from the tone of her voice that she knows something, but trying to get her to talk will be like trying to hold a conversation with a brick wall. An angry brick wall. “Spouses next?” he suggests, and Sam nods, though he looks as unsettled as he feels.

Then, the old man in the corner stands up, his chair scraping against the floor and screeching like nails on a chalkboard. The sound is as loud as a thunderclap in the otherwise silent diner, and they both tense as the old man approaches.

“You should listen to her, sonny,” the old man says, staring down at both of them. His teeth are yellow and chipped and crooked, and his breath smells like something crawled into his mouth and died there. “Best for you to leave before you stir up somethin’ that ain’t meant to be stirred.” He nods a few times, his eyes wide and wild, and then he stumbles off toward the exit, muttering to himself all the while.

“Okay,” Sam says again. “So. They know something, obviously. But are they just scared, or--”

“--or are they protecting it?” Dean finishes. “Hell if I know. Let’s go talk to their wives.”

Of the five victims, two were single. Of the three that were not, only two of their wives remain in town. The first one they visit, Sally Bradford, does not come to the door, despite her car being clearly parked in the driveway. The wife of the most recent victim, on the other hand, opens the door after only a few seconds, though only partially, staring at them in suspicion.

“Can I help you?” she asks. Susan Gordon is a short, heavyset woman, with dark hair and dark eyes and a broad, deeply-lined forehead. Dean smiles at her.

“Hi, I’m Agent Grayson, and this is Agent Todd. We’re with the FBI.” They flash their badges. “We’re here investigating the disappearance of your husband Mike, along with four others. Do you mind if we ask you some questions?”

She shifts in place, uncomfortable, and does not open the door further. Her eyes narrow. “I already told the police, I don’t know nothin’,” she says. “One day he was there, and the next he was gone. Probably ran out on me.”

They exchange glances. “Mrs. Gordon,” Sam says, with that particular soft voice he uses when addressing victims, “can you remember anything strange happening in town or nearby around the time he disappeared? Cold spots, strange lights or smells, anything like that?”

Instead of questioning what Sam means by that or why that would be at all relevant, as most people do at this point, her expression shutters. “No,” she snaps. “And I don’t know nothin’ else, neither. Leave me alone!” She slams the door in their faces. They wait for a moment to see if she’ll change her mind, but unsurprisingly, she doesn’t. They head back to the car, slightly bemused.

“That wasn’t suspicious at all,” Dean mutters, and Sam frowns.

“I don’t think it’s a ghost,” Sam says. “A ghost wouldn’t make the whole town act like this. Demon possession, maybe?”

He grimaces. “Maybe,” he says, “but I don’t like it.” There’s something they’re missing here, he knows it, but he can’t quite put his finger on just what it is. Which is a problem, considering that knowing what they’ve walked into could mean the difference between life and death.

By this time, it is evening, the sun hanging just above the horizon, and they pull into a motel on the edge of town. It’s the only motel in a twenty mile radius, and it’s clearly seen better days, but it’s better than sleeping in the car. The grizzled old clerk hands them their room key, and they make their way to the door. They’ll spend the night in, researching, and hopefully by morning they’ll have a better idea of what they’re looking for.

He doesn’t notice them until they’re right on top of them, until he is dragged into a chokehold, a pungent rag shoved over his nose and mouth. He tries to hold his breath, tries to struggle, but the damage has been done. He feels lightheaded, dizzy, and through darkening vision, he can see Sam getting the same treatment, his eyes wide in alarm. The room key slips out of his grasp.

_ Not a ghost, _ he thinks, and then everything goes black.

 

* * *

 

 

He wakes up to chanting. He really wishes that were more of an unusual thing for him.

He doesn’t open his eyes at first, rather taking stock of the situation as best he can. His head is throbbing, and his knees ache from the position he has been forced into; kneeling on the floor, he believes, his hands bound tightly behind him. The gun in his waistband is absent, leaving him unarmed; he’s still wearing the FBI get up, and there’s not any room for a knife in those shoes. There is a strong scent of incense in the air, belied by a musty, rotten smell that makes him want to cover his nose.

There is movement behind him, a slight shifting, and he tenses, flexing his fingers.

“Dean?” It’s Sam’s voice, soft and concerned, and he opens his eyes.

The first thing that hits him is that they’re in an abandoned warehouse. An actual abandoned warehouse, with dirt covering the floor and old boxes stacked a mile high, because they’re pulling out all the cliches today, apparently. He is tied to a rusty metal pole securely anchored to the ground, with Sam at his back. The second thing that hits him is that the chanting he woke up to? Is being done by a group of about fifteen or so people, wearing dark robes and circling around some sort of symbol carved into the floor, their hands raised in the air. He can’t get a good view of the symbol itself, but what he can see isn’t written in any language he recognizes.

“What the fuck?” he mumbles. He cranes his neck around, trying to see Sam’s face, to see what he makes of this. “Is this a cult? Did we get kidnapped by a fucking cult?”

“I think so,” Sam says, and he doesn’t sound worried so much as confused. “What are the odds?”

He frowns. The… cultists… haven’t seemed to notice their awareness yet, and it’s probably smart to keep it that say. But at the same time, they’re both weaponless, tied up and practically defenseless. Sitting here won’t do them any good.

_ Hate to bother you, Cas, but if you could pull a rescue out of your hat, that would be great,  _ he thinks, though he doesn’t hold out hope. Cas is busy, and there’s no guarantee that he’ll be able to come. So in the absence of angelic intervention, they’ll have to get out of this themselves. “Hey,” he says. “Hey, you in the cloak!”

The chanting continues without pause. For a moment, he thinks they’re just going to ignore him, but then, the one nearest to them turns around. “So you’re up,” they say with studied disinterest, and with a shock, he recognizes the voice of their waitress. Are there other townspeople under these cloaks? That old man? Susan Gordon?

“Yeah, we’re up,” he says. “You’re going to be in a lot of trouble once the Bureau finds out about this. You think you can kidnap two FBI agents without consequences?” He’s lying through his teeth, of course, but there’s no reason for her to know that. Behind him, Sam starts to subtly work on his bonds, though Dean doesn’t think it’ll do much good. Whoever restrained them knows how to tie a knot.

“They won’t be able to hurt us,” she replies, her voice as flat as ever. “Not once we use you to summon our Lord.”

Great. So that means they’re what? Blood sacrifices?

“Uh huh,” he says. “Where’d you get this, off the internet? That kind of shit doesn’t work.” He pauses. He wishes he could see her face, but her hood keeps it in shadow. “And it hasn’t so far, has it? You’ve tried five different times, five vics, on the same day every year. Probably because that’s what it said on wikiHow.” He scoffs. “If it hasn’t worked before, what makes you think it’ll work now? And what are you trying to summon?”

She hesitates, though he still can’t tell if he’s shaken her. Behind her, the chanting and circling continue. “We’re summoning our Lord Death,” she says finally, “and offering him your lives so he’ll make us immortal in exchange.”

Sam freezes, a strangled sound escaping his throat, and yeah, that’s pretty much his reaction too, because what the fuck? Not only are these nutjobs trying to summon Death, but they actually think he’ll make them immortal? The guy gets annoyed enough at their own resurrections; he’s not going to give these guys anything. Except maybe an early grave.

Seemingly coinciding with her words, the rest of the cloaked figures fall silent and stop pacing. The symbols on the floor begin to glow off-white, a sickly, weak color. The light illuminates the carvings; now that he can see them clearly, he almost thinks he recognizes them.Something about their shape nags at the back of his mind. Has he seen them in a book? Sam inhales sharply.

“That’s Nor--” he begins, but he is interrupted.

“Be honored,” the waitress says, stalking forward. “You pave our way to eternity.” Her voice is stilted and awkward, as if she’s reading from a script. Her robes part, revealing a long, jagged knife clutched in her right hand. Dean swears and begins to struggle openly, throwing subtlety out the window. The ropes show no sign of giving out, but he continues to try, his eyes locked on the knife as she approaches.

He refuses to die. Not here. Not like this. Not victim to some tacky cult that was lucky enough to get the drop on them. And he won’t let Sam die here either. Not if he can help it.

_ Please, Cas, _ he prays,  _ some help would be good. _ And then--

Outside, thunder booms, and his heart leaps, because it would be a dramatic entrance but it just might be-- But then the symbols flare even brighter, so bright that the cultists stumble back and even he has to squint. The waitress wheels around, the hand not holding the knife coming up to shield her eyes. The only thing running through his mind is a litany of swear words. That, and the impossible thought:  _ did their ritual actually work? _

If it didn’t before, it shouldn’t now. But that’s without taking the infamous Winchester luck into account.

Then, the light dies down, and there is a woman standing in the circle.

She is tall, dark-skinned, and beautiful. Her hair curls around her face in a natural afro, accentuating her cheekbones, and her eyes are dark brown, piercing and clear. Her lips, curled in what is unmistakably a smirk, are ruby red, full and tempting. She wears a dark leather jacket and form-fitting jeans that disappear into black high-heeled boots. Under any other circumstances, Dean would be very attracted to her, and yet. There is something about her that is off-putting, something that makes his skin crawl and his throat close up. Something not entirely right, something not entirely human.

She’s not Death. But she’s something.

He swallows.

As one, the cultists drop to their knees, bowing their heads low. “Lord Death,” they say in creepy unison.

The woman raises an eyebrow. “If you like,” she agrees, her voice rich and low. She has an accent, but Dean can’t place it. “I am certainly  _ a _ death.” Then, she steps out of the center of the symbol. Judging by the gasps that evokes from several of the cultists, she wasn’t supposed to be able to do that. She rolls her eyes. “Please,” she says, “where did you find that thing, Reddit?” She slowly walks across the floor, stirring up ash and dust with every step, her heels clicking loudly against the cement, echoing through the warehouse. She moves like a predator, smooth and sure, like she’s trying to decide who her next meal will be. “I came by my own choice, because I was curious. You have been surprisingly persistent, considering your failures, but this is the first time you’ve made the attempt twice in one year.”

The waitress raises her head. “We have sacrifices, my lord,” she says, her voice trembling. “We hope that you will accept them and look upon us favorably.”

The woman’s gaze falls upon them for the first time. Dean holds very, very still. After a moment, her eyes widen slightly, and a smile eases onto her face.

It’s not a nice smile.

“Oh?” she says. “And what have we here?”

She stalks forward, and Dean is powerless to resist her as she caresses his cheek, her long nails scraping down his skin as she moves to grasp his chin.

“The Winchesters, if I’m not mistaken,” she says, smugness dripping from her words. “How very quaint. I’ve been wanting to meet the wo of you for some time.” She looks into his eyes for a moment, and then, impossibly, winks. Then, she stands, turning to face the cultists. “I have no need of your crude offerings,” she says. “Had I not chosen to come, your summoning would not have wrought anything at all. But for giving me these two, I will reward you.”

The waitress bows her head low. “Thank you, my lor--”

“You wish for eternity?” the woman asks. “Then I shall give it to you. Pray for your souls, mortals, for I will not.”

The waitress looks up, her hood falling back from her face. Her eyes are wide, and Dean feels a thrill of alarm. But before he can even think to do anything, the woman waves a hand, and all of the cultists collapse like puppets with their strings cut. The waitress’ eyes roll back in her head, foam bubbling up from her mouth; she is dead before she hits the ground. At the same time, the ropes binding him and Sam fall slack, and he scrambles to his feet, pulling Sam up with him. A wave of dizziness washes over him, but he holds his ground.Being unarmed and facing a cult was one thing, but being unarmed and facing and unknown monster of evident power is another, and he can’t afford to show any weakness.

The woman sniffs. “Amateurs,” she says, and turns back to them. He barely stops himself from flinching away; one half of her face is just as it was a minute ago, but the other half has been replaced by a grinning skull, one empty eye socket glaring at them grotesquely. She seems to be well aware of how she look because her smile-- half of it, anyway-- only widens. “No need to be scared, boys. I won’t hurt you. Much.”

He shifts his weight onto the balls of his feet. “Who the hell are you?” he asks, but the woman only laughs.

“Yes,” she agrees nonsensically, and he is about to ask again when Sam grabs his arm.

“Dean,” he says urgently, “the symbols, I recognized them. They’re Norse runes.”

What?

The woman raises her remaining eyebrow. “Oh, you’ve got it,” she says. She sounds mildly approving. “I can see why my father likes you. Not that he’d admit it.” Sam inhales sharply, and she does a mocking little bow. “I am Hel, Norse goddess of the underworld. You  _ are _ acquainted with my father, are you not?”

He casts back in his memory, trying to remember Norse gods they’ve met and who exactly her father is in mythology. The only thing coming to mind is the Hotel Elysium, during the Apocalypse. Odin was a Norse god, wasn’t he? And that Baldur guy, and--

Oh. Oh, wait.

Sam swears, softly but with feeling. Hel laughs, the sound of racks being shoved into a meat grinder.

“Of course you are,”she answers for them. “He died for you, after all.”

And Loki. Loki, who was a complete jackass, but who died for them anyway. Loki, who wasn’t just Loki.

He meets Sam’s eyes, and he can see the same feelings reflected there.

_ Shit. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'ALL DID YOU SEE THAT TRAILER I AM L I V I N G
> 
> Also, I thought maybe we were gonna break 200 hundred kudos last chapter. Then we shattered 200 kudos. Thank you so much I cannot b e l i e v e. And thank you so much for all your lovely comments! I haven't had time to reply to anything lately, but I read and love and flail over every single one. I'm so glad that y'all liked the Gabriel and Crowley scene; it was one of the most fun things to write so far.
> 
> This chapter was barely edited, and I'm sure it was riddled with typos, but we're moving forward. Unfortunately, I have about zero time for writing right now, literally, so it's going to be a bit of a longer wait for this next chapter (though I'll post it earlier if I get done earlier).
> 
> To make up for that, here's a little tidbit: I'm fairly sure we'll have the Crowley/Aziraphale reunion within the next six chapters.
> 
> Next Chapter, Coming December 22, 2018: Hel is very disconcerting and also infuriatingly cryptic. Cas and Dean have a lot of tension and Sam's pretty fucking sick of it. And dialogue. Sooo much dialogue. It's like, all dialogue. I hope you like dialogue with your dialogue, because that's what you're getting, somebody help me.
> 
> Aaaand, ok, as of the 22, some life stuff is making me push back the update a little bit more. Chapter's nearly done, so it'll be posted on December 27. Thanks for your patience!


	12. In Which Hel Does Creepy Like It's Her Job

The moment he saw her, he knew. He doesn’t know why; it’s not as if she looks at all like her father-- as they knew him, anyway-- and there are plenty of other Norse deities she could have been. And yet, he knew. And she knew that he knew.

Hel. Goddess of the dishonored dead.

His mind is still reeling, and not just because of the lingering effects of the chloroform. Everything has been happening too fast today, and he’s still surprised that Dean agreed to this hunt at all, much less allowed him to come. He must not have been screaming aloud last night; if he had been, Dean would have insisted that he stay with Bobby, ignoring his protestations. Though all things considered, he thinks he’s holding himself together fairly well. He hasn’t had any flashbacks other than the one in the car, and Lucifer is consigning himself to his dreams rather than intruding in reality. It could be much worse.

Of course, then the ghost turned out to be a cult and now they have to deal with this situation, but that’s entirely unrelated.

He can see the dawning realization on Dean’s face as he puts the pieces together, but he remains frozen, speechless as her words echo in his ears.  _ He died for you _ , she said, and he has never been able to stop feeling guilty over that, because sure, Gabriel was a dick, but he pulled through for them in the end, and he didn’t deserve what he got for it. And now, here is his daughter-- and he has to wonder how many of the other myths are true, if this one is-- and she is quite possibly looking for revenge, and he can’t blame her if she is.

But she said something else.  _ I can see why my father likes you _ , she quipped, and while Sam highly doubts the validity of that statement, there is something in there that gives him pause.

_ Likes, _ she said.  _ Likes. _ Present tense.

“Is he alive?” he asks softly, unsure of what answer he’d rather get. Dean stares at him like he’s crazy, but Hel cocks her head, smile firmly in place. Slowly, flesh knits back over the skeletal side of her face, and it’s fascinating to watch, muscle and blood and tissue and skin all threading over bone. She blinks, and her eye socket fills to match the brown of the other. 

“You really are clever,” she says, sounding halfway to impressed. He’s not sure whether that’s a good thing or not. “That’s one of the things I would like to talk to you two about, actually. That is, if you don’t mind having a conversation. I know a great place to get some food.” Suddenly, she seems almost like a normal woman, one hand landing on her hip, the other outstretched invitingly. “What do you say?”

In that moment, Sam can only see Gabriel: in her smile, in the quirk of her eyebrows, in the gleam in her eye.

Dean opens his mouth, probably to tell her where she can stick her conversation, but Sam heads him off. “If you swear it’s just a conversation,” he says evenly, “then I don’t see the harm in it.” Dean glares, but Sam shakes his head at him, as subtle as he can manage.

When a goddess comes calling, it is never a good idea to deny her, after all. Especially if she might have information they can use. If Gabriel really is alive, his help could prove invaluable.

Hel smirks. “Brilliant,” she says. Then, in an all-too familiar gesture, she lifts a hand to snap. 

A rush, a moment of disorientation, both like and entirely unlike when Aziraphale flew with him yesterday, and then the three of them are sitting at a table. Dean almost falls out of his seat, cursing up a storm, and Sam blinks. They seem to be in a fairly high-class restaurant, with a spacious, well-lit interior and nice ambiance. Their table is situated near a floor-to-ceiling window from which they can look over a city some distance below. He doesn’t recognize it, but the sky is bright, sunny, and cloudless, so unless they were out longer than he thought, they’re probably not still in the States.

“What the hell,” Dean says with a glare. “I swear, if you’ve done anything with my car--”

Hel rolls her eyes. “Your car,” she says, “is right in the motel parking lot where you left it. And where I will return you shortly, if you refrain from provoking me into killing you.”

“Alright, then let’s get on with it,” Dean replies, and Sam resists the urge to sigh. “What about  _ Gabriel, _ exactly?”

She holds up a finger and turns to the side, beckoning to the first waitress that crosses her line of sight. Said waitress makes a face not unlike a grimace and walks over, clutching a menu against her chest like a shield. Her expression is one of both recognition and resignation; clearly, Hel is a regular here, if the wait staff know her on sight. The waitress-- Sam searches for a nametag, but it’s written in Cyrillic-- trembles as she draws near, uneasiness showing in her eyes. She speaks in another language, a short inquiry, and Hel answers in kind, before gesturing to the two of them.

“English for these two, though, if you’ll be so kind,” she purrs. “You know what I like, Olga.”

The waitress, Olga, turns her gaze to him. “And you, sir?” she says, her voice heavily accented. “For drink?”

He smiles, trying to put her more at ease. He’s not sure if Hel has a reputation here or if their waitress is just picking up the vibes she gives off, but either way, there’s no need for them to traumatize her. “Just water, please,” he says, and nudges Dean. “He’ll have the same.” Dean frowns but doesn’t object. Olga jots down their orders and scurries away, leaving the menu behind. Hel pushes it toward him, but it only takes a glance to know that he can’t read it.

“Are we in Russia?” he asks, and Hel smiles. 

“Lovely place, isn’t it? I rather like it here,” she says. “The cold reminds me of home, and the service here truly is spectacular.” The playful tilt of her head makes it seem like she’s telling an inside joke, one that Sam thinks he’s quite content not being privy to.

“Yeah, that’s great,” Dean says. “Can we move on?”

She laughs, a horrible, grating sound. “You’re certainly an impatient one, aren’t you?” she says. “Fine. To answer your question, Sam, yes. My father is alive.”

Sam exhales slowly, taking a moment to let the information sink in. He’s glad to hear it; that’s one less death weighing down on his conscience, one less thing for Lucifer to torment him with at night, one less thing to blame himself for. Because he did blame himself for it; even if Gabriel claimed he was doing it for Kali, Sam knows very well that he wouldn’t have helped if they hadn’t persuaded him to do it. But that begs the question: if he was alive after all, where was he after Hotel Elysium? Back in hiding? Sam supposes he can’t really begrudge him that, but still. He’d thought he’d finally changed his mind, had finally decided to stand up to his family and if that turns out not to be true after all, well. He’d be lying if he said that didn’t rankle, just a little. 

Some of what he’s thinking must show on his face. Or maybe she’s reading his mind, because she frowns at him. “Don’t misunderstand me,” she says, her tone harder. “I said that he is alive, not that he has always been so. He died for you two, for your cause, and you are very lucky that I was able to resurrect him, else I would be far from the only being calling for your heads.”

Hel is not the only child of Loki in the myths, he recalls. There’s Fenrir, Sleipnir, and Jormungandr, a wolf, horse, and snake, respectively.  _ How _ that works, he has no idea. What he can recall of the lore is kind of… out there.

And this  _ isn’t the point. _

“You resurrected him?” he asks. “I thought only God could resurrect angels.”

She inclines her head. “That is true, generally speaking. But it has been a very long time since my father was only an angel, and even besides, death is my domain. It was pagan paths I walked to find him again, and pagan magic I used to pull him from the Empty.” Her face darkens, for a moment flickering between skin and bone. “This method is not without its problems, of course, but he is alive, which is more than he could say before. And no thanks to you.” She closes her eyes, visibly calming herself. Sam instinctively leans back a little, even as he turns over her words in his mind.

What problems could she be talking about?

“Okay, great,” Dean says. “So he’s alive. That’s fantastic, good for him. But what exactly does this have to do with us?” Frustration leaks into his words, but Sam can tell that it is born out of genuine emotion regarding the situation rather than any attempt to be combative. “No offense, but we’ve got our own set of  _ problems _ to deal with here.”

Hel opens her eyes again, and thankfully, she doesn’t look angry. “Oh, I’m getting to that, never you fear,” she all but purrs. “I would like to wait until everyone gets here to explain in full, but tell me, Dean Winchester, how much has your  _ darling _ guardian angel told you about the stolen weapons of the Host?” 

A nerve underneath Dean’s eye twitches, but he holds steady. “Weapons?” he asks reluctantly, though the narrowing of his eyes tells Sam that he didn’t miss it either: who is  _ everyone _ ? His fingers twitch, begging for something to hold, but he’s got nothing.  _ They’ve _ got nothing; they’re sitting with a goddess of death and they’re all but defenseless. If she decides to call some of her friends to play, there’s nothing she they can do.

“Oh yes,” Hel says. “The armory of Heaven is ancient indeed, stocked with weapons of Biblical proportions.” She smiles, all teeth. “Literally. And that angel of yours let someone steal them right out from under his nose.” She leans back in her chair, examining her nails-- painted black, pointed except for her middle and index fingers. She notices him watching and smirks, and he fights in vain to force down a blush.

Dean audibly grits his teeth. “Okay. What’re you saying?” His temper is rising; Sam can tell from the way he trembles. Barely noticeable to anyone who wouldn’t know to look for it, but then, he doesn’t think much gets past Hel.

_ Don’t let her get to you, _ he prays, he hopes. It has always been far too easy to use Cas against Dean, and Sam knows that it must grate that Cas said nothing about any of this. But they can’t afford to let her play with them, to get into their heads or to provoke them into provoking her. She could kill them with a thoughts if they annoyed her, and he would very much like to avoid that.

Where would he go, he wonders, if he died now? To Heaven, or back to--

“I’m saying,” Hel says, “that my father has just happened to fall into company with the one who stole them. Thank you, darling.” Olga has returned, placing a sparkling dark amber liquid in front of Hel and water in front of him and Dean. He tries to smile at her in thanks, but she refuses to meet his eyes before rushing away again. The whole room is abandoned, actually, all empty chairs and empty tables, though he can’t remember if it was like that when they arrived. He hopes so.

A chill travels down his spine. Something’s not right.

“Thus,” Hel continues, and he wrenches his attention back to her. “I know exactly who has them and where they are. And I’m sure that’s something you’d be very interested in hearing about, isn’t it?” Her gaze settles on the middle ground somewhere behind them, and Sam swivels in his chair. 

Cas and Aziraphale stand a few yards behind them, a few feet apart and seeming comfortable in each other’s presence. Which is good-- after Aziraphale’s reaction to hearing about Heaven’s civil war, Sam was a bit worried that he would blame Cas for it. But this seems not to be the case, and Cas, at least, looks the same as he ever did, if a little more tired, a little more rumpled. His face is stony, but his eyes betray his worry; they flicker to Dean and stay there for an inordinately long amount of time before taking in everything else. Sam would be amused if the situation weren’t so potentially dire.

Aziraphale, for his part, appears to be nothing more than mildly concerned, eyebrows raised and he stares at Hel. Somehow, Sam finds that comforting. 

“Hello, Dean,” Cas says, “Sam. I heard your prayer. My apologies for not coming sooner.”

Well. Sam certainly didn’t pray. Didn’t even think to try.

Dean huffs. “‘S fine, Cas,” he says, watching Cas with the same intensity with which Cas is watching him. He doesn’t seem to notice that he’s doing it. “Better late than never.”

Hel smiles, baring her teeth. “Yes, Cas, better late than never,” she mocks. “Do pull up a seat. And suddenly, there are two more chairs at the table, one at each unoccupied end. “Come on now, I’ll play nice.”

Cas and Aziraphale exchange glances before moving forward, Cas uneasily and Aziraphale betraying no fear, if he feels any. He takes the seat closer to Sam while Cas sits next to Dean, and he offers Sam a warm smile, which he returns, if shakily.

“So nice to finally meet the infamous Castiel,” Hel says. “I would introduce myself, but I’m sure you already know who I am. And Aziraphale, how good of you to return to us. Seems like an age since I last saw you.”

Aziraphale inclines his head. “Nice to see you too, Hel,” he says. “I was sorry to hear about your father.” And he really does sound sorry, Sam notes, genuinely grieved. Though, he shouldn’t be surprised that he knew Gabriel, he supposes, since they were the only two angels kicking around Earth long-term. And by extension, he would know Hel as well. At this point, Sam has just about resigned himself to the fact the Aziraphale knows literally everyone.

“Condolences accepted,” Hel replies, “but there’s no need. He’s fine.”

That sparks a reaction. Aziraphale’s face brightens, and he straightens in his seat, like a weight has just been lifted off his shoulders. Castiel cocks his head, his brows furrowing. 

“Gabriel is alive?” he asks quietly, almost hopefully.

Hel waves a hand dismissively. “Yes, that’s what we were just discussing,” she says. “I resurrected him by my own means, no thanks to you and any of yours. What use is a God who does not help His children, I really don’t know, but I hardly needed His help.”

Cas bristles at that, but Aziraphale cuts him off before he can say anything. “He’s helped me,” he says, regarding Hel with a calm gaze. A gentle defiance, but defiance all the same, and he hopes that Hel won’t feel like she needs to make him pay for it. Hel stares back at him, and to Sam’s surprise, does not snap.

“Perhaps He has,” she says, “but one has to wonder whether it was too little, too late. Your death had consequences far beyond what you seem to understand.” Aziraphale goes pale, and Hel takes a sip of her drink, tapping her fingernails against the glass. The sound rings out clearly in the otherwise silent room, a pinging that calls to mind the tinkling of bells. Funeral bells, though maybe Sam’s just reading too much into it. “Tell your boyfriend to ease off my territory,” she says at last, instead of clarifying her last, ominous statement. “I like him well enough, but my patience is not endless.”

Aziraphale jolts, and his eyes grow wide. His hands, previously clasped together on the tabletop, jerk and skitter about, as if looking for something to hold. After a couple of seconds of this, Sam nudges his glass of water toward him, and the angel latches onto it gratefully. He does not take a sip, only drawing it close to him in a white-knuckled grip.

“What do you mean?” he asks, in a voice that shakes with every word. “Do you know where he is?” It’s almost uncomfortable to see, this sudden, undiluted desperation, especially because Sam is fairly certain that they are talking about the demon that Aziraphale is so inexorably fond of. He glances to the right to see is Dean has noticed, but he and Cas appear to be having a silent conversation of their own.

“If you do not know,” Hel says in that same, even tone, “then it is not my place to tell you. And even besides, that is not what I am here to discuss.”

Aziraphale shakes his head and leans forward, his eyes bright and almost wild.

“You said you know where the stolen weapons are,” Cas says. “Gabriel is involved?” He is frowning, and Dean is scowling. Sam wishes he knew what passed between them, but at the same time, perhaps it’s better not to. He’s been stuck in too many motel rooms with the pair of them not to be aware that sometimes, the Dean-and-Cas show is better ignored. For his own sanity.

Aziraphale slumps back, the picture of abject defeat.

“My father has taken your thief under his protection,” she reveals. “Against his better judgement, perhaps, since he has convinced himself that he wants nothing more than to stay out of the affairs of heaven. I am sure that he will be angry with me for telling you anything at all.”

“Then why do it?” Dean demands roughly. Cas’ frown deepens.

“Because the situation has become untenable,” Hel answers. “You cannot win your war as you are now, and as much as I do not concern myself with the affairs of angels, I have no desire to see Lucifer walk free once more. He killed my father, you see.” She smiles thinly, and for a fraction of a second, like the flash of a camera lens, her skull is visible through her skin. “I was hoping that my father would do something to rectify this mess if I pushed him to involve himself, but it seems that he needs more incentive.”

“Or a fire lit under his ass,” Dean mutters. Cas hisses a warning, but Hel only nods.

“Or that,” she agrees. She turns to Cas. “Your thief’s name is Balthazar. He is ill-suited to the power that he carries, and not particularly good at concealing it. You should have little difficulty finding him.”

Cas clutches at the table so hard that the wood creaks. “Balthazar is dead,” he growls.

“It seems that so few really are, these days. It’s almost a pity.”

Sam tries to catch Dean’s attention, to see if Dean knows why Cas is reacting so strongly to the name. Dean shrugs, just as bewildered.

Hel looks to the window and sighs. “The hour grows late,” she murmurs, though the sun still shines brightly, slanting into the room and casting long shadows across the floor. “I trust your angel will provide you with transportation back to your vehicle, Dean Winchester. And as for you, Sam Winchester…”

A chill travels down his spine, and he flinches.

She turns to him, one half of her face a bleached white skull and the other half wreathed in shadows. Dean jerks back from the table with an exclaimed profanity, and Cas leaps to his feet, but Sam stays where he is, transfixed. “Your hell is not one I can take from you,” she says, deep and echoing and layered with a thousand other voices, “nor would you want to pay my price, even if I could. But my father could help you. He will not offer, but if you ask, I doubt he will refuse you. Your pride will be your greatest obstacle.” Paralyzed, he can only watch as she reaches out with one bony finger and touches his forehead. Lightly, and her finger is cool and hard and not at all unpleasant.

“Do try not to let Raphael win,” she says.

And then she disappears. The room becomes ten times warmer.

The others burst into a flurry of noise and motion; Aziraphale’s startled, “Wait a--” is drowned out by Cas’, “Do  _ not _ \--” but Sam ignores both of them as Dean abruptly stands, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. Dean takes him by the elbow and drags him up with him, and he stumbles, putting a hand on the table.

“What the fuck was that?” Dean asks, peering at the spot where Hel touched him like he’s scared that his face will start falling off. Sam shakes his head because he  _ doesn’t know _ , he can’t even  _ begin _ to try to interpret what she was talking about, and--

“There’s likely quite a bit of conversation there that we completely missed,” Aziraphale says glumly. “Hel is never one to come out with exactly what she means.”

\--and his hand is covered in dust--

“She was lying,” Cas insists. “Balthazar is  _ dead _ . He would not have--”

\--and the table and chairs are coated in dust, and there is dust in the air and on the floor, and the sun streams in through windows caked with grime.

Something’s wrong, alright. They didn’t see it because she didn’t want them to see it, but this place is just as dead as she is.

“Guys,” Sam says. “No one’s been in here for a long time.”

That catches everyone’s attention. Cas stops talking, and Dean finally stops inspecting his forehead to inspect their surroundings. He sees what Sam does: the rotting furniture, the tattered curtains, the flowers in vases that look like they’ll crumble at a touch. The glasses that Olga-- or  _ something _ \-- brought them are empty and dirty. Aziraphale releases his with a noise of disgust and joins the others in standing, wiping his hand on his pants.

“Shit,” Dean swears. “We gotta get out of here. Cas?”

Cas nods, moving forward, and takes Dean by the arm and Sam by the shoulder, and Sam does not have time to pull back before they are standing in front of the motel room they never actually made it into… how long ago? It feels like days, though it must only have been a few hours. He blinks, swaying as the ground briefly spins underneath him before righting itself. The backlash this time isn’t nearly as bad as when Aziraphale flew him to Bobby's, and the sound of wingbeats a moment later reveals that Aziraphale has followed close behind.

There is a moment of silence. Then, Cas sighs, releasing them both and moving a few steps away, passing a hand across his face. It is a very human gesture, and Sam thinks that he looks very tired. Dean thinks so too, if his pursed lips are anything to go by.

“You got time to stick around for a bit,” he asks, “or do you have somewhere you gotta be?”

“I have… time to stick around,” Cas replies, though his voice is stilted. “Though not much. I should return as soon as possible.”

“Great,” Dean says, and begins fishing in his jacket pocket for the room key. Sam doesn’t have the willpower to tell him that he’s pretty sure that he dropped it when they got nabbed. And even if he didn’t, it’s probably not a good idea to stay in the town where a bunch of cultists tried to sacrifice them to death. Sure enough, Dean comes up empty, and he glares at the door, as if that will make it open.

“Here,” Aziraphale says. “I can do that, if you’ll allow me.” He steps up beside Dean and places a hand on the doorknob. The click of the lock is audible in the stillness of what must be the early hours of the morning. Aziraphale turns the knob but does not open the door, instead pivoting to face Dean fully. “I don’t think we were properly introduced earlier,” he says, and extends a hand. “I’m Aziraphale.”

Dean eyes the proffered appendage for a full five seconds before cautiously taking it. “Dean,” he says gruffly. “Uh, thanks for fixing Sam, I guess.”

Aziraphale beams at him. “Oh, it was no trouble at all,” he says.

Dean looks vaguely like he’s been hit with a sledgehammer, which… yeah. Sam briefly considers taking offense to being talked about like he’s not here, but decides against it. Any outcome where Dean doesn’t try to stab someone is a good outcome as far as this introduction goes, so he’ll take it.

Completely unaware of the general effect he tends to have on people, Aziraphale opens the door and walks inside. After a moment, Dean follows, muttering something under his breath. Sam makes a move to follow, but suddenly, Cas is there, gently laying a hand on his upper arm.

“Sam, I…” he says. “Before we… I must apologize for what I did to you. I raised you, but in my hubris, I did not stop to consider that something could go wrong. You paid the price for that, and I…” He breaks off, jaw clenching, something agonized in his eyes for all that his face is mostly blank. This confirms a lot of Sam’s suspicions, and he sighs.

He can’t say he doesn’t wish that Cas had done it properly. But at least Cas  _ tried. _ And if he hadn’t tried, maybe no one else would have. Maybe he would still be down there, body, soul and all. Maybe he would still be screaming.

The nightmares are bad. But he can wake up from those.

“It wasn’t your fault, Cas,” he says. “You did the best you could.”

“But that wasn’t enough--”

“Hey,” Sam cuts him off. “I’m alright now, aren’t I? I forgive you, really.” And he means it. Not that he feels like there’s a whole lot to forgive in the first place, but if it will make Cas feel better to hear it, he’ll offer all the forgiveness he has in him. For a friend like Cas, that’s a lot. “C’mon, let’s get in before Dean has a conniption.”

And Cas looks like he wants to say more, but he doesn’t. Sam nods at him in what he hopes is a reassuring way before walking into the room, bracing himself for the discussion that is about to follow.

They have a lot to talk about, after all.

 

* * *

 

 

It takes a few minutes for Sam and Cas to join them, which gives Dean time to watch Aziraphale flutter around the room like some kind of demented butterfly. The guy just won’t stay still, moving from the rickety chairs and table by the wall to the old dresser to the bed to the bedside table, running his hands absentmindedly over every surface he can find. It takes him an impressive thirty seconds to find the Bible, and that at least prompts him to sit. He flips through it much too quickly to actually be reading. His face is pale, and there are lines around his eyes that weren’t there when he showed up with Cas. Hel said something to him that shook him, three guesses as to what. Dean can’t say that he was paying all that much attention, but…

For a guy who’s apparently best buds with a demon, he sure doesn’t seem all that evil. Or very much like any other angel he’s met, now that he’s really thinking about it; he tries to picture a dick like Zachariah being agitated like this guy so clearly is and just can’t. At all. Which, huh.

Not that he’s going to start trusting this guy anytime soon or anything, but if he’s going to be helpful, maybe it’s alright if he hangs around. And Sam seems to do a bit better when he’s here, so there’s that, too.

Sam and Cas walk in then, both of them looking mildly uncomfortable but nothing worse than that. He catches Sam’s gaze, and Sam gives him a slight nod. Good. Whatever they needed to talk about, they’ve resolved it; he only wishes that all of their other problems would go away so easily. Sam slumps into the seat across from Aziraphale at the dinky little table, and Cas takes up a position next to the dresser, like he was going to lean on it but thought better of it. For a moment, no one speaks, the weight of the meeting they’ve just survived as heavy in the air as several tons of rocks. 

“So,” Dean says, deciding to start with the thing that’s been bothering him the most. “Who the fuck is Balthazar?”

Aziraphale stops fiddling with the Bible, and the room goes completely quiet. Expectant. Not that Dean particularly cares; ever since Cas had such a harsh reaction to the name that Hel dropped, he’s been feeling irritated for reasons he can’t pinpoint.

“Balthazar was,” Cas begins, softly, hesitantly, “a friend. The closest one I still had in Heaven, I thought, though it seems that I have made another misjudgement.” He pauses, the slight furrow of his eyebrows practically a beacon of distress, coming from him. “He and I… I suppose the best way to say it would be that we were raised together.”

“Childhood friends,” Sam prompts gently. Dean scowls.

“Yes,” Cas says. “Angels do not have… childhoods, not as a human would think of it, but the description is accurate enough. Even during the Apocalypse, as I was Falling, he never raised a hand to me as so many others did, and once it was over, he welcomed me back with open arms. I thought that meant nothing had changed. Yet another lapse on my part, I suppose.”

Something dark and ugly rises in Dean’s chest, constricting his breathing. This Balthazar guy was Cas’ best buddy since they were angel babies, and he still betrayed him? Un-fucking-believable. Just more evidence to prove that Cas is the best out of an otherwise bad lot.

“Fuck that,” he decides. He doesn't know what he’s going to say, but he does know that dejection is not a good look on Cas’ face. “Not your fault he turned out to be a dick, Cas. We’ll find him and Gabriel and get those weapons back, alright? But we do it together.”

Cas stares at him. “That will be a more difficult task than you make it sound,” he says. “Dean, I am sor-”

He shakes his head. “Save it,” he says, because honestly? He’s not mad that Cas kept the stolen weapons thing from him. Unbelievably frustrated, for sure, because haven’t they gone over stuff like this? But not mad, though maybe he will be after he has time to process the fact that Cas’ bestie (who he had no idea existed, who he doesn’t really like now that he does exist, for the obvious reasons, obviously) betrayed him, practically setting him up to be killed by Raphael. Because that,  _ that  _ is what he is currently seething over. “We find them, we drag their asses back into this mess, and then we plan our next move, you got it?”

Cas huffs out something that could almost be a laugh, if looked at sideways through squinted eyes. “I should have known better than to keep this from you,” he says. “I apologize. If you will try to track them on Earth, I will try to trace them from Heaven. Perhaps our paths will meet in the middle.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, and grins. Cas blinks, looking away.

“I should return,” he says, an odd note in his voice. “I have already been away for too long.”

“Alright, Cas, I-” But Cas is gone before he can get the words out, so the sentence ends with a sigh of frustration.

A beat, and then: “I do believe you flustered the poor boy,” Aziraphale says, and Dean turns to face him so quickly he almost wrenches his back. Aziraphale is staring at him intently, Bible forgotten on his lap, and Sam is glancing back and forth between the two of them, his lips twitching like he’s trying to hold back a laugh.

“What,” Dean says, because what.

Aziraphale closes the Bible with a snap, placing it gently on the table. He stands, brushing imaginary lint off his vest. “Nothing,” he says. “I should probably go with him. I dislike everything about this war, but his heart is in the right place, so I will try my utmost to ensure he doesn’t get himself killed.”

That leaves Dean feeling a little wrongfooted. What is he supposed to say to that, thank you?

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Sam asks.

“Well enough,” Aziraphale replies. “I would gladly deliver Hel’s message for her if I  _ knew where he was _ , but at least I have confirmation that he’s alive. Anything else is going to have to wait.” Dean should absolutely not feel sorry for an angel hung up on a demon, but in that moment, he sounds so disheartened that he can’t help but feel pity for him. Just a little bit. As if hearing his thoughts (and maybe he is, and wouldn’t that be awkward?), Aziraphale’s eyes lock onto his. “You should know something else, I think,” he says. “Gabriel may or may not help. I can’t guess. But if he does not, I know of a weapon besides an archangel bade that may at least harm an archangel.” He pauses. “A sword, created for the purpose of guarding the Gate of Eden from Lucifer. Last I heard, Heaven had recovered it, so it was likely stolen with all the rest of the weapons.”

Dean straightens, hope rising no matter how hard he tries to squash it. He didn’t like the idea of depending on  _ Gabriel _ of all people to help them, so it’s good to know that there might be another way.

“I’ll be off, then,” the angel says, satisfied that his words are being considered. “Take care, both of you.” Another moment, and then he, too, is gone, leaving the two of them alone. Dean scrutinizes Sam-- force of habit, now, especially after all that weird shit Hel said to him. And that forehead poke thing she did, oh boy was that ever  _ not okay _ , no matter how nonchalant Sam seemed to be about it. But Sam looks… fine, if tired, not at all like he’s about to keel over or have a flashback or start turning into a skeleton like Hel did or what have you.

“I’m fine, Dean,” he says in that same mild-mannered tone of voice he’s been using all night. The tone he always uses when he’s freaking out but trying hard not to show it. So, not fine, but you know what? He’ll let him have it, just this once. He doesn’t think either of them would survive another deep, meaningful conversation, not after all the shit that’s been thrown at them today.

So, he throws himself back onto the bed with a gusty sigh, pretending not to see Sam’s grateful expression. “Good,” he says. “Me too. Let’s pretend it’s not almost morning and get some shut-eye, okay?” That, at least, shouldn’t take any effort; he’s bone-tired, and he knows that Sam is too.

He hears rather than sees Sam’s laugh, and then, his brother turns off the light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And I'm back, dropping 6k words of dialogue at your doorstep like the worst late Christmas present ever. Thank you all so much for your patience; hopefully, I can pick up the update pace a little bit more now. Imma try, at least, and we'll see how this goes! But seriously, thank you for your support. All your kudos and comments mean the world to me.
> 
> Here's a headcanon that I leaned on pretty heavily for this chapter: Aziraphale would rather die than admit it, but his first instinct when stressed out is to find something to hold. Usually, it's tea or a book. Sometimes, it's a glass of water that Sam handily pushes over to him, because Sam's pretty intuitive about that kind of stuff. Occasionally, it's a demon, when he can catch Crowley in the right mood.
> 
> Also, as of this chapter, And All the Sinners, Saints is officially longer than the original version of this fic. We're not even halfway through. This fic is gonna be over 100k guys I can't even.
> 
> Next Chapter, Coming January 12, 2019: Crowley runs into a bit of trouble, which he handles with his usual grace. Gabriel, meanwhile, has a decision to make, and he's pretty sure he's not going to be happy with it no matter what he decides. Damn Winchesters and their damn saving the world complexes.
> 
> Aaaand ok, second semester is hitting me harder and faster than I thought it would, so I'm gonna have to go ahead and push back the update a couple of weeks to January 27. That'll teach me to do theater, I guess (free time? I don't know her.) Terribly sorry about the delay!


	13. In Which Crowley Contemplates Homicide, and Gabriel Tries to Make a Well-Informed, Reasoned Decision

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It only just occurred to me what it might look like to come off an unplanned three-month hiatus on April Fools. This is a real update, I swear.

It takes him longer than it probably should for him to realize that he is being followed.

To be fair, he’s still  _ pissed _ , and unfortunately not in the British sense of the word _. _ Pissed at Gabriel, the moron, pissed at Castiel for getting him involved in this shitshow, pissed at himself for letting his guard down. He should probably talk to Castiel, tell him who’s got his missing weapons, but even though it would be nice revenge on Gabriel to do so, he’s not sure he could make it through a meeting without trying to kill the self-righteous prick of an angel. Which is tempting, but he needs Castiel to get rid of Raphael, so for now, he has to abstain. Self-restraint is no fun, but it’s the reason he managed to climb to the top; too few demons these days understand the value of patience.

Of course, there aren’t many demons like him left at all. Most of the original Fallen are either dead or holed up so deep in Hell that it would take a crowbar and a miracle to pry them out. The vermin that are running around these days, the ones that used to be human, most of them have had the sense tortured right out of them.

Crowley stops in the middle of a crowded shopping mall, right in the middle of suburban He-Doesn’t-Really-Care. He’s been wandering around the Earth for hours now, hoping to find something to snap him out of this mood. Some of Raphael’s faction, perhaps, or some hunters who think taking on the King of Hell would be a good idea. Anything to work out a little anger, anything but returning to Hell and that bloody uncomfortable throne.

That’s when a slight prickle on the back of his neck tells him: he’s being watched.

He ducks into a Starbucks, and its poor, broke, under-caffeinated patrons part before him, oblivious to his presence. It’s home turf for him; he invented the chain, whispering the right ideas in the right ears way back when. He got a commendation for it, back in the days before… before. As it stands, the crowded cafe offers a good vantage point from which to scan the rest of the mall. It’s easy to pick them out after that: one sitting by a fountain, two standing conspicuously by a wall, two more by the carousel, wearing a mother and child.

Demons. Grunts. No one he recognizes.

He wonders how long they’ve been there, and if they mean to start something. Probably not, or at least, not right now. They haven’t made a move yet, and the fact that he hasn’t sensed them before now means that if nothing else, they’re good at tamping down their bloodlust. Of course, he can’t be certain that they’re trying to kill him, but why else would they be watching without confronting him? He toys with the idea that they’re going to try to persuade him to head back downstairs, but dismisses the thought; he’s made sure the place would run smoothly enough without his presence. The less time he has to spend down there, the better.

He stretches a bit, flexes his power. His anger coats the area like a wildfire, hot and heady. The humans around him move away, shuddering, but the demons have an even more pronounced reaction, each one of their heads snapping up to look directly at him. He holds each of their gazes in turn, a beatific smile pulling at his lips. Then, he heads out of the Starbucks and out of the mall entirely, hands jammed firmly in his pockets. The lights flicker as he goes.

They follow him into the parking lot, drawn like moths to a flame. He stops walking, and they fan out around him. He’s surrounded, but that doesn’t bother him. If he thought these idiots were a threat, he would’ve obliterated them while they were still inside.

“So, what’ll it be, then?” he asks. He doesn’t bother masking his boredom. “Don’t like the way I’ve been running things? Think you can do a better job, is that it?”

One steps forward. “We have our duties,” it says, speaking through a corpse’s mouth. “You are a usurper to the throne. Our Lord will hang you up by your toenails and flay you alive before he grants you the mercy of death.”

Oh, goody. One of those. He should have killed more of the old crowd when he first took over. All those Dukes and Princes and Earls have no place in a modern Hell. Traditionalists, the lot of them, short-sighted fools who can’t comprehend how much more efficient his methods are. No, they’re all about the blood and the screaming, never moving forward with the times, incapable of understanding that corrupting souls one by one takes too bloody long.

He’ll make an example of whoever is pulling these mooks’ strings. And if the rest don’t fall in line after that, well. What’s a little more bloodshed?

He sighs, snapping his fingers. The one who spoke explodes, blood and guts spraying all over the pavement and nearby cars. He steps back a bit so as not to get the mess on his suit, and the others shift uneasily. “Anyone else have any bright ideas they want to share?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

It only happens because he’s not expecting it. One of them rushes him, and he turns, one hand raised to ward off whatever pitiful blow it’s trying to deal, but quicker than he can process, it pulls out an angel blade and slashes a line of fire across his palm. He hisses and jerks back, instinctively cradling the injured hand to his chest, and  _ where in Hell did this low-level minion get an angel blade? _

Not that it matters. It’s dead either way. 

Two of the others come up behind him, grabbing his arms, and he sends them flying back with a thought. They crash into cars, filling the air with the high-pitched whirring of alarms. When the stabby one comes at him again, he is ready; he sidesteps its clumsy swipe and grabs its wrist, twisting its arm behind its back until it screams, dropping the blade. He scoops it up and rams it into the demon’s back, pushing until it lights up from the inside out.

“A missstake,” he rasps. He’s slurring his s’s, but the demon is far too dead for it to matter, and even if it wasn’t, it wouldn’t recognize the significance. He lets the empty meatsuit slump to the ground, and when the other two come up behind him again, he pivots and slits both their throats in one easy motion. They remain standing for a moment, blood spurting from their necks as orange lightning eats them up, and then they fall in unison, as graceful as a couple of sacks of potatoes.

There is blood on his hands now and underneath his fingernails. Some of it is his own, from the damned cut that hasn’t stopped bleeding. Most of it is not. It’s on his suit as well, he notices with distaste, but then, it was probably time for a new one anyway.

Four down. That leaves one. He turns to face it, black eyes staring out of the face of a little girl. It hasn’t done anything yet, merely watching him warily, and that alone marks it as smarter than its compatriots. Not more powerful, though; it would be just as easy to dispose of as the others, and he raises a hand to do so.

But… the girl is still alive. Terrified and confused and all but smothered by the demon that has taken up residence in her, but alive. And aware, crying out for the mother whose throat he just sliced open. She would be sobbing, if the demon would let her. That shouldn’t matter, but even as he prepares to blow her and the demon in the driver’s seat to smithereens, there is a voice in his head that says,  _ don’t. _ He knows who it sounds like, even if he hasn’t heard the voice in years, and he curses every deity he can think of for its presence. Especially Gabriel. Mostly Gabriel.

He reaches out and pulls. The girl’s back arches as smoke comes pouring out of her mouth, gathering in a cloud where he holds it still. She collapses to the ground when he’s done, but he has eyes only for the swirling demon in front of him, pinned in place, at his mercy. It knows it, too; its fear is a heady thing, and he revels in it.

“Tell your Lord,” he says, “that if he wants me dead, he’s going to have to try harder than that. Perhaps he should come himself instead of sending incompetent lackeys. I’ll be waiting.” Then, he shoves his hand down, and the demon goes careening through the asphalt, back to where it came from. He is left standing in the pooling blood, the car alarm still sounding. With a growl, he waves his hand, and the vehicle crumples. The noise stops.

He breathes out slowly, staring at the corpses. With the benefit of hindsight and a more clear head, he can see that this was not well done of him. He doesn’t regret killing them, but in such a public place? Not his best move. And he has no idea who their “Lord” is. Stupid of him; he should have kept that last one for questioning. Not that the pool of suspects is particularly large, but he can’t afford this kind of dissent so early in his reign. Not if he wants to keep his throne. This issue must be dealt with, and quickly.

Police sirens sound in the distance, coming ever closer. They’ll have a field day with this, no doubt. They’ll never get anywhere close to the truth of the matter, and they’ll surely dismiss the only living witness.

The girl breathes steadily. She’ll be traumatized for life, no doubt, but she’s alive. Something stirs in him, and he crushes it down ruthlessly. 

This is no place for sentiment.

“Damn it,” he mutters, and when that doesn’t make him feel better, he tries again. “Bless it,” he says, quieter but more vehement. That feels more comfortable, as much as he doesn’t make a habit of saying it these days.

He has a snake in the grass, it seems. But not for long.

 

* * *

 

 

He wakes to the sound of his name on someone’s lips.

This in and of itself is not an uncommon occurrence. One of the first things he learned to do after abandoning Heaven was to block out the thousands that prayed to the archangel Gabriel. It was too much of a reminder after he left, too much of everything he was trying not to be. And then, after setting up the Loki gig, pagans started praying to him too. He would answer occasionally, depending on his mood and what they were asking, what they were offering. He remembers many a moonlit ritual with fondness, the memories glazed over with time and mead and the haze of magic and sex. Simpler times, indeed.

But he never responded to all, and barely any in this modern day, when his followers have dwindled down to almost none. It is his original name that he hears, though, his original name that jolts him to arousal in the dead of night.  _ Gabriel, _ the whisper says, and it is not the plea in the voice that makes him sit up and take notice. It is the voice itself.

The voice belongs to Sam Winchester.

_ I don’t know if you’re listening, or if you care, but, uh, if you do. I guess you know something about what’s going on in Heaven. _

Yes. More than he wants to. The real question here is why the man is praying to an angel he should think is dead. Gabriel frowns, snapping away the participants in the night’s activities and turning on the lights in the same gesture. There is no sign of Balthazar in the room, a hotel suite that Gabriel modified to fit his own tastes. The younger angel has taken to sex like a duck to water, but he hasn’t quite grasped the finer points of sleeping yet, so he’s probably out roaming the streets, looking for something to do. Probably for the better; no sense in getting Balthazar involved in the soap opera that is the Winchester brothers unless it’s absolutely necessary.

_ We met your daughter today. Hel. She was, um, creepy, but she told us about Heaven’s weapons getting stolen and how you’re alive and you’re with the angel that took them. _

What.

“Odin’s fucking balls,” he mutters, sliding out from between silk sheets and snapping on some clothes, because wow, he really didn’t think that tonight was going to take this turn, but what the absolute  _ fuck _ , Hel? He’s barely processing what Crowley’s been up to for the past seventeen years; he doesn’t want to deal with this on top of everything else. He whips out his phone, ready to call her and give her an earful.

Maybe it’s not too late to turn this around. A little bit of memory modification, and Idiots One and Two will forget all about his continued survival. Easier for everyone, that way. Life as normal.

_ I’m glad you’re back, by the way. You didn’t deserve what happened. _

He pauses.

_ I don’t think I ever thanked you for that. You really saved our skins in there, and telling us about the rings let us lock Lucifer up, so. Thank you. _

The rub is that he really does sound grateful. Like it mattered. Like he did anything of note other than dying, his brother’s sword rammed in his gut. Vainly, he tries to draw on Loki, because a trickster god wouldn’t care. A trickster would laugh off death, would laugh off any lingering sentiment about this stupidly earnest sasquatch of a hunter. Would laugh off his prayer and his gratitude. Loki has no need of either. But the persona slips through his fingers no matter how hard he grasps at it, and where Loki doesn’t care, Gabriel cares too damn much. That’s always been his problem; if he hadn’t turned to paganism, he would never have survived on his own, too used to the company of others. It’s early enough in the morning that he’s willing to admit that, if only to himself.

_ We could really use your help again. Things are looking pretty bad. _

He grips his phone so tightly that the screen cracks. “Damn you to hell, Hel,” he says, and flies off in the direction of Sam’s voice. He expects the dingy motel room, the darkness. He casts an irritated glance at Winchester the elder, snoring away in the second bed, but hey. Dean Winchester asleep is infinitely less annoying that Dean Winchester awake, so he’ll take it.

What he doesn’t anticipate is Sam Winchester looking like, well. Hell.

He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, slumped forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. His head is slightly bowed, his eyes staring off into the middle distance. There are bags under them, deep and dark as bruises, and everything about him screams exhaustion. What catches Gabriel’s attention more than anything else, though, is the state of his soul. Battered and torn and ripped, and honestly? It’s kind of a Dad-granted miracle that he’s not drooling in a psych ward somewhere. Looking closer, he can see some places where there have been patch-jobs done-- he senses a familiar thread of grace he can’t quite place, and the lingering touch of Death himself if he’s not mistaken, which, okay. If Death is invested in the guy, maybe he should reconsider his own stance on involvement, because Death typically reaps souls rather than saving them. That’s kinda his shtick. If he’s switching it up, things are worse than he thought.

“Cas is losing his war against Raphael,” Sam murmurs. His voice is soft and considering, almost like he’s talking to himself rather than to a being of phenomenal cosmic power. “If he does, Raphael’s going to start the Apocalypse all over again, and I don’t think we’ll be able to stop it a second time. I don’t think I can. Lucifer won’t… he won’t fall for the same trick twice, and we’ve only got the one.” He takes a steadying breath, and almost against his will, Gabriel moves closer. He can hear what’s being left unsaid: Sam doesn’t think he’d be able to win another fight against the Devil, and looking at the state he’s in, Gabriel has to agree. It’s nothing short of miraculous that he managed it the first time.

There’s a niggling voice in the back of his mind now, a voice telling him that if they pulled off a victory before, they can do it again. Which, okay, yeah. He could conceive of Castiel beating Raphael’s dumb ass. Potentially, if circumstances were lined up exactly right. But the difficult odds aren’t what bothers him about this. He can’t raise a sword against his siblings again. He worked up the resolve to once, and that got him killed, and he can’t put himself through that a second time. He barely knows who he is most of the time, these days. Fighting a war really isn’t in the cards right now. All the mental health days in the world wouldn’t prepare him for that.

He knows this. So, why isn’t he leaving?

“So, we need you,” Sam says. “I… I know you don’t want to fight, I get that, and you… you don’t even have to. Not if you can’t. But we could use any help you could give us, even if that’s just shoving a bit of firepower our way. I know you want to protect humanity, and you stood up to help once. I’m asking you to do it one more time. Please.”

Something deep inside flares in response to the words, and Gabriel goes very still, feeling almost dazed. Because… that’s right. That’s why he’d done it, in the end. Above all else, he doesn’t want to see the human race go up in flames just yet. There’s too much left for them to do. And sure, a good portion of them are awful, terrible people, but for every shitstain walking the earth, there’s someone else who goes out of their way to make the world around them a better place.

He shakes his head wonderingly. “Well shit, kid,” he says. “Anyone ever told you you could be a motivational speaker?”

He doesn’t want to fight. All the pretty words in the universe couldn’t make him want to fight. But Sam’s words are tugging at parts of him he’s been trying not acknowledge, whether as Loki or Gabriel, and maybe he doesn’t have to do nothing.

He must slip a bit in his wards, because Sam’s head jerks up, eyes darting around the room. He stays very still, and the hunter’s gaze passes over him like he’s not there at all. After a few moments of this, Sam relaxes, head going down again as he sighs. “I don’t know what else I expected,” he murmurs, and the unique combination of wry amusement and utter defeat is almost enough to make him reveal himself, just to see the look on the hunter’s face.

Which would be a  _ bad _ idea, which is why he does  _ not _ do it, but.

Damn it. He’s actually going to do this.

“Nothing like a Winchester to get under your skin,” he complains to the room at large, and vindictively, he takes a little jaunt through Dean Winchester’s dreams and replaces all of the scantily clad female strippers with even more scantily clad made strippers. Serves him right, and who knows, maybe the change in scenery will have the added benefit of giving the idiot a clue.

Balthazar is on top of the Eiffel Tower, swirling a glass of wine in one hand, because Balthazar is a Dramatic Ho in literally everything that he does. It’s child’s play to find him; Gabriel wove stronger wards around him, but he left himself a back door for situations like this.

“Gabriel,” Balthazar greets, British and kind of smarmy in a way he seems to think is charming. It’s not, really, and maybe one day he’ll get around to telling him that.

“Hi,” Loki says. “The Winchesters know about us.”

The shattering of the wineglass should not be as funny as it is, but it is absolutely hilarious. It stains the front of Balthazar’s tacky v-neck dark red, like blood, and Loki snaps the mess away. Because he’s a nice guy like that.

“Or, more specifically, they know that I’m alive, and that I’m with you, and that we have the weapons,” Loki continues gamely. “Which means that Castiel knows.” He pauses. “Not actually sure that they know your name, but Cassie’s probably put it together even if they haven’t.”

“How?” Balthazar rasps, pale with shock. Loki contemplates the skyline. Here in Paris, the sun is just rising.

“My daughter,” he answers. “Have I told you about my daughter? I have a daughter. She’s the one who set me up to run into you, but I guess she wasn’t satisfied with that, since it’s looking like she went and tattled to literally everybody else that would care. Well, maybe not everybody,” he amends. “She didn’t tell Raphael. Probably. I’m pretty sure she doesn’t actually want me dead.”

Balthazar has gone progressively whiter as he speaks, but he makes a valiant effort at keeping his composure. “So what?” he asks. “So they know. Does that matter? A couple of hunters could never dream of tracking us down, and Castiel’s a bit busy.” There is enough bitterness in his voice to poison a small sovereign nation. “Even if he weren’t, he couldn’t find us through your wards.”

“Great points,” Loki says, holding up a finger, “but it has occurred to me that if Raphael wins, we’re dead. Not us, necessarily,” he tacks on, forestalling Balthazar’s protests. “We have an arsenal to defend ourselves with. But Castiel? Dead. Almost half the angels in Heaven? Dead. All the humans? Probably dead, depending on whether Mikey or Luci wins. At least half of them’ll die, so let’s go with that.” Balthazar scowls. “It’ll be the end of civilization, at least. Which means no more fancy booze or clothes or the fun kind of sex. All the good stuff--” He snaps. Balthazar flinches. “Gone.”

It takes a moment for Balthazar to find his voice. “I thought you didn’t want to go back up there,” he says hoarsely, “that you didn’t want to fight--”

“Oh, I really don’t.”

“Then why--”

“Because the way I see it, we’ve got two choices,” Gabriel snaps. “One, we keep doing what we’re doing. Boozing around, having a good time, pretending that nothing’s wrong and nothing’ll ever be wrong. Believe me, I like that option. Avoiding responsibility is my favorite pastime. Or, two, we go check it out. I’m not saying throw all our cards on the table, but we could go take a look. I hate to say it, Balthazar, but I’m not sure we can stay out of this one.”

Balthazar stares at him for a good long while. “You’re fooling yourself,” he says. A sudden gust of wind rips by them, almost stealing his words. “We go back, we don’t have a choice. We’re involved, and that means we fight.” He turns to the side, spreading his arms out on the railing and looking out over the city. “What’s this really about?” he asks, frustration seeping through his mask of indifference. “Why the sudden turnaround? Just a day ago, you were adamant that you never wanted to see Heaven again.”

Something in his aches, because that’s not strictly true. He’d do anything to go home again, back to Heaven as it was, back to love and belonging and family he didn’t have to fear would stab him in the back. But that Heaven stopped existing a long time ago, and he’s learned the value in not looking back.

“I dunno,” he says. “Maybe I think you’re underestimating the Winchesters. They’re worse than bloodhounds once they’ve got your scent.”

Balthazar scoffs, but he seems to be considering his words. “And if I agreed?” he says. “To… checking it out.”

“Then I go talk to them,” he says easily. “Size up the situation, and if we wanna cut and run, we can. No commitment necessary. I don’t even have to mention your name.”

Balthazar looks at him again. “I don’t like this,” he states, “but I really can’t stop you, can I?”

There is distrust in his voice. Gabriel’s trying not to feel guilty about it. It’s only sort of working. “I told you I’d give you protection,” he says softly. “That holds, no matter what happens. You got it?”

Balthazar snorts, and just like that, the tension is broken. “I’m holding you to that,” he says. “Go on, then, go ruin all our best-laid plans.”

There is bite in his words, but not as much as there could be.

Loki’ll take it.

 

* * *

 

 

He ends up waiting for a while. Mostly because Sam fell asleep after he left, and the guy looked like he could use a few hours. So maybe he extends a little grace, makes sure that the nightmares stay away for a bit, but if he does, well. No one’s going to know about it, and he can justify it by telling himself that Sam will be less cranky and easier to deal with if he’s gotten a few winks. And maybe he also doesn’t want to risk having Dean on his ass, because that guy has a tendency to push all the wrong buttons.

The chance to get Sam alone comes earlier than he expects. The two of them rise with the dawn and hit the road, and Loki follows behind; as much as the sigils on their ribs should make them hard to find, there are other things for him to track. Like their car. Distinct as all hell.

They pull into a gas station around the lunch hour. Dean heads into the dinky little convenience store, but Sam stays behind, claiming disinterest, and his brother lets it go after a few not-so-subtle looks of concern, and, well. Loki knows an opportunity when he sees one. He lands beside the car as soon as Winchester-the-more-annoying is out of view, taking a moment to rearrange reality just how he wants it. Then, he steps up and taps the passenger side window. Sam rolls it down on autopilot, his gaze fixed first on the police uniform he conjured, then slowly drifting up to his face.

It’s funny to watch his expressions. Mute surprise, shock, anger, a little bit of fear. His eyebrows creep up his forehead and stay there.

Loki lifts his notepad. “I’m ticketing you for being a loud pain in my ass when I was trying to sleep,” he says, writing as he goes. “What gives?”

Sam’s mouth works like a fish out of water, which is also funny, though sadly, he does not seem to find the cop theme to be amusing. “Gabriel,” he says, and Loki rolls his eyes.

“Thank you, Captain Obvious,” he says. “You wanted to talk? I’m here, so let’s talk. You’ve got until your brother gets back from buying porn.”

Hesitantly, Sam reaches for the passenger handle, and Loki steps back to let him out. They regard each other for a moment, man and pagan god, and Loki takes a second to be irritated by how tall the guy is. His own vessel was a perfectly respectable height at the time when he made it, but you would never guess it, looking at the two of them side by side.

“You were listening to that?” Sam asks. He sounds almost laughably tentative, almost embarrassed, like maybe he really did think that he was just talking to himself.

“Oh, ye of little faith,” Loki says. “You’re kind of hard to ignore.” He snaps his fingers, switching out the police stuff for the leather jacket he’s taken to wearing lately. “Look, you made some good points, alright? Can’t say I’m super eager to get myself involved, but I’m willing to talk about it.” He snaps up a couple of lollipops and hands one to Sam, who takes it on autopilot. “Convince me. Why do you need my help?”

Sam blinks, just staring. After a moment, he shakes his head. “I think I summed it up pretty well last night,” he says. “It’s not just us at risk, it’s everyone on the planet and all the stuff that comes with them. And right now, we’re outnumbered and outclassed. We… I meant what I said about you not having to fight, but if you could help us at all--”

He holds up a hand. “You’re right, you did sum it up pretty well last night,” he says. “That’s what got me here. Now, I want you to answer my question. Why do  _ you _ need  _ my _ help? Or to put it differently, why should  _ I  _ help  _ you _ ?”

This clearly catches Sam off guard. His brow furrows, and he looks perplexed, as if unsure as to why Loki is asking for a more personal stake in things. Which should be obvious enough, really, if he’s been paying enough attention. After all, he knew very well what was at risk the first time around, and yet he couldn’t bring himself to do anything about it until a couple of idiots got in his face.

He’s never dealt well with abstracts, and that still holds true. He may be capable of recognizing that the world is hanging in the balance here, but that doesn’t necessarily mean he’s going to do anything about it. Not without motivation.

“I don’t have a good answer for that,” Sam finally says, frustrated. “Not beyond what I’ve told you. I wish I could say that we’re definitely gonna win, but I can’t, because we barely did last time. I can’t give you guarantees. All I can do is ask you and hope that you’re game, and if you’re not?  _ Fine _ , but I don’t know what else to do. We need someone else in our corner right now.”

He waits.

“I need someone else in my corner right now,” Sam admits, his voice soft, and he’d do a victory lap if the man didn’t look so miserable to be saying it. His shoulders slump, and he leans against the car, shoving one hand into his pocket with a deep side. The other hand absently twirls the lollipop, which he still hasn’t opened.

“And you want that someone else to be me,” Loki finishes. “Alright. No need to look so down, I’m not saying no just yet.” He frowns, looking Sam up and down. “How did you get topside again, if you don’t mind my asking? Was it Castiel? I’ll bet it was Castiel. He never did know when to give up.” He shakes his head, almost admiringly. Castiel has come a long way from the shy little fledgling he used to be, clinging to Anna’s hand as she took him to the Garden.

To his surprise, Sam’s face lights up, suddenly becoming animated. “Sort of, actually, he got my body out, and then someone else helped get Death to get my soul. I think you know him, his name’s Aziraphale? He was resurrected and I--”

_ What. The fuck. _

Sam keeps talking, but he’s zoned out, replaying that one sentence on loop.

_ I think you know him, his name’s Aziraphale? _

Aziraphale is dead, though he supposes he should know better than most that dead doesn’t always mean dead. But in Aziraphale’s case, he’s been dead for upwards of seventeen years, which is a little long to go before a resurrection. Unless he faked his death like Crowley did, but he can’t imagine the angel doing that, especially not without letting Crowley know at least, and if Aziraphale really is alive then it’s pretty obvious that Crowley doesn’t know anything about it and oh sweet baby Jesus  _ Crowley _ \--

He absolutely cannot think about all the ramifications of that right now, because if he does, he is going to have a meltdown right here, right next to Sam Winchester, and he is absolutely not doing that.

Sam is silent, watching him with something like concern. It makes him want to laugh. He almost does, except-- “Are you saying--” He stops and clears his throat, which has suddenly gone very dry. “Are you saying that Aziraphale is alive?” he asks. He feels off-balance, wrong-footed, and it’s all he can do to avoid showing Sam the cracks in his veneer.

“Yes,” Sam says. “He saved my soul.”

“Alive now, after seventeen years?”

“Yes.”

“Where is-- you know what, nevermind, don’t answer that.” Gabriel scrubs a hand down his face, elation warring with weariness. Because of course, Aziraphale would never let Raphael’s actions go unchallenged. If there’s a civil war in Heaven, he’ll bet his life that Aziraphale’s gone to help the rebels. The angel never was very good at prudence; he’d stand up to the Devil himself if he thought it would protect something he cared about. Has done so, in fact. “He’s with Castiel, isn’t he.” It’s not a question, and Sam seems to get that, but he nods anyway.

“You were close?” he asks, and Gabriel’s not sure when Sam started being the one asking the questions here, but he sighs.

“Holy fuck,” he says, without much feeling behind it, because this is… a lot. “Yeah, I guess you could say that. As close as a Principality and a runaway archangel could be, anyway. I dropped in a couple times a year and he never tried to stop me. He had…  _ has _ a bookshop, did he tell you that?”

Sam grins. “He did,” he says. “I’d really like to see it, actually. It sounds like he’s got some cool stuff.”

He shrugs. “If you’re into that kind of thing,” he says, and wow, is this rapport? With Sam Winchester? Totally not what he was going for here, but strangely enough, he’s not hating it. “It’s not my kink, but whatever floats your boat.”

Sam makes a face. He grins. Yeah, not hating it.

Of course, that’s when Dean decides to exit the convenience store. He takes one look at the two of them, and outrage twists his face. “Sam!” he calls, and starts toward them.

“Aaaaand that’s my cue,” Loki says. “See you around. Maybe.”

He takes a step back, meaning to transport himself away before Winchester-of-the-shitty-timing can reach them and do something ill-advised, like try to attack him. But Sam catches his arm, and for some reason, that makes him freeze and tense, every muscle locking in place. He meets Sam’s gaze, and wonders why he doesn’t just pull away. He could. Easily.

“Gabriel, wait,” he says, hushed and hurried. “I just wanted to-- I wanted to ask. Last night, you, said you were listening, and I. I didn’t have any nightmares. That hasn’t happened since I got back, so I was wondering if-- nevermind, it’s stupid.” He releases him, but Gabriel still doesn’t move. His arm is warm, like Sam’s hand is still there, and he resists the urge to rub at it.

So much for  _ no one’s going to know about it. _ He should deny that he had anything to do with it. It’s not like it would take much, and Sam must have made a pretty big leap in logic to arrive at that conclusion anyway.

He shrugs, smirking. “What can I say? You’re prettier when your eyes aren’t so bloodshot.” Sam’s eyes widen, and he goes to say something else, but Dean is practically sprinting toward them and he refuses to be held responsible for his actions if the guy tries to get all up in his face right now. “Look, I’m not going to guarantee anything, but I’ll think about it, alright?” And before he can give Sam the opportunity to react to that, he vanishes, pulling his wards around himself so quickly that it must appear that he has flown the coop.

And just in time, too. Dean comes to a skidding stop by his brother. “Sam, what the fuck was that?” he asks, though his face says that he has some idea already.

Sam shrugs. “That was Gabriel,” he responds, so nonchalantly that Gabriel almost laughs out loud. Unfortunately, Dean does not have the same reaction, clenching his jaw so tightly that the clack of his teeth on each other is audible.

“Yeah, I saw that,” he says. “What did he  _ want _ ?”

“To talk,” Sam says. “He knows that we know about him and Balthazar, so he came to check it out, I guess.”

“Yeah, but why--”

“How am I supposed to know?” Sam cuts him off. “Gabriel does what he wants. You want to know why so badly, you can ask him yourself.” A pause. “Dean, I’m fine. He really just wanted to talk. Nothing more than that. Can we hit the road now?”

Dean huffs, obviously unsatisfied. His eyes dart around the parking lot, completely oblivious to Gabriel’s continued presence. Then, he crosses around the back of the car, swinging into the driver’s seat. Sam moves to follow suit, his hand wrapping around the passenger door handle, but he stops, casting one last look over his shoulder. “Thank you,” he mutters, before getting in the car himself. And if Gabriel’s not completely mistaken, Sam unwraps the lollipop and sticks it in his mouth.

Gabriel watches the car pull out onto the road, making no effort to follow. “Yeah, whatever,” he says, and decides not to try to interpret why he feels weirdly pleased. An emotional issue for another day, he thinks. If he’s going to keep forging this path, he’ll need to keep a level head. Relatively speaking.

He sighs and looks upward. “I’m so going to regret this,” he says to no one, and with a blink and a thought, he spreads his wings and takes to the sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to apologize for how long this one took. School's nuts. Updates might take a while from here on out, but they will come, I promise. Thank you so much for your patience and your support!!
> 
> The new goal is to have this fic finished before Supernatural does (which I cannot believe I'm saying, like... part of me is sad but another part of me is saying that it's about damn time, so...)
> 
> Next Chapter, Coming When It Comes: Some shenanigans happen in Heaven, ft. Gabriel being annoying, Aziraphale being annoyed, and Castiel wanting to get off this ride. Also, everyone seems to be keeping secrets, and Aziraphale would really like to know just what it is that Gabriel's not telling him.


End file.
